


Another Set of Eyes

by Rens_Knight



Series: Another Set of Eyes: A Star Wars Alternate Universe [3]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, I do not use plot-spoiling tags., Mild Language, Moral Dilemmas, No Sex, Realistic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2017-12-01
Packaged: 2018-05-28 00:38:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 56,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6306922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rens_Knight/pseuds/Rens_Knight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In one reckless moment, Kylo Ren has created a world of trouble for himself--and you're trapped dead in the middle of it with no escape.  Here begins the tale of an ordeal you have no choice but to share with the last person in the galaxy you would ever have chosen.</p><p>Surrounded by lies, some truths can never be spoken.  But some truths may not have to be, to be understood.</p><p>-----</p><p>NOTE: This isn't a stereotypical Reader fic--there won't be any romance unless redemption happens for Kylo Ren.  But there is so much of the human condition and human relationships--including extremely close ones--to explore even without two people having to be physically intimate with each other, that I believe I can still create something compelling.  I endeavor, too, to be as realistic as I can.  This isn't a fluff piece.  This is, as best as I can create it, how I think things could really play out under the circumstances.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Although this is a reader insert, I endeavor to be as realistic as I can think to be in this story. Things will not come easily--people will react as naturally as I can think of even to the improbable circumstances, and I try to stay as true to Star Wars as I can in light of all we don't know right now about The Force Awakens, though eventually I reach points where I will have to extrapolate, and there's a risk of getting it wrong. 
> 
> If you're expecting to see a romance here, you won't see that unless redemption happens for Kylo Ren. BUT...there is so much of the human condition and human relationships--including extremely close ones--to explore even without two people having to be physically intimate with each other, that I believe I can still create something compelling.
> 
> After most sections, I'll add a list of songs that helped me set the mood as I was writing, or that were suggested to me by readers here or on DeviantArt. The first section will have a lot because it contains songs that are a sort of "lead-up" from The Force Awakens (and some may offer hints of even before that), as well as those for Part 1 itself. I hope you'll enjoy that insight into the creative process! And if YOU have suggestions, by all means let me know! Not all might make my playlist, but I appreciate them nonetheless. Some sections may have other notes as well.
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy it...feedback is welcome!

**Dantooine  
One month after the destruction of Starkiller Base**

_Clank-clank-clank-clank..._

The cadence of Stormtroopers on the march drives itself into your ears, drawing closer and closer to your 'practice,' such as it is, where you've managed to pull in a few of the walking wounded who fled from the Troopers' first onslaught.  They're almost here.

You chance a look out the window as you move between patients.  A figure in orange and white runs past the window--frantic, horrified.  A Resistance pilot.   _Hurry up!_ you fervently wish, knowing very well he'll never hear you.

There's only so much you can do for the wounded gathered here.  You may be the medic of sorts, for this downtrodden village, but the chaos spreading malignantly through the galaxy--oh...right...'order'...that's what they call it--means you never had a chance to get offworld to get the kind of schooling you need to really claim the title of doctor.  Still, you're all they've got.  It's better than nothing, you console yourself.  It had better be.

A minute or two later, the march of the Stormtroopers has risen to an angry thunder.  You try your best to ignore it as you dab alcohol to your patient's wound, but you can barely hear his indrawn hiss of breath over the din outside.  They're here.  They're _here_.  A chill runs up your spine.  You glance back out the window and--

\--among the white-armored Troopers, a tall figure wreathed in a frayed black cape, his frame taut with barely-contained energy like a reactor core.  Suddenly he freezes.  His head whips to the side, a black and silver mask...

Your stomach sinks straight into your toes.  He's looking at _you_.

 _Who attacks a_ hospital _\--the bastard!_

"Everybody quiet!" you hiss at the patients.  You've heard enough about the First Order, even in this backwater.  You've heard about the Stormtroopers.  And what _has_ to be staring you down from outside.  Moving with long strides towards your door.  A Knight of Ren.  "Close your eyes," you whisper.  "Be still.  Play dead."

 _This isn't going to fool anybody_ , you fear.  This place may be too primitive to have medical droids or monitors to give the lie to the charade--but still, anyone with half an eye for detail will spot the ragged movements from a wounded patient's breath.  The involuntary twitches when the barely-treated pain peaks.  Still, you have to try.

You hold your own breath as you wait for the blaster barrage that will inevitably bring down the door--

_Snick._

The door's locking mechanism gives way.  Your insides freeze--somehow this is worse.  You locked it from the inside, yet it unlatched just like _that_.  You didn't see a droid with them... _oh, no._  Those stories about the Knights of Ren, the things they can do...

_He's coming._

You snatch up a scalpel, hiding it behind your back.  It's the only weapon you can think of, and pathetically undermatched to what's-- _here_.

The door swings open, slamming with a crack on the wall.

The tall, dread figure, flanked by two Stormtroopers, makes a line straight for you.  Shaking, your hand tightens into a fist around the scalpel.  You're going to have to let him get close--it's the only way--damn it, he's taller than you thought; striking the jugular is going to be even harder than you figured--

" _Drop it_."  A disorted basso voice rumbles forth from the mask.  " _It won't be any use._ "

" _No,_ " you grind out between your teeth as best as you can.  But your voice trembles despite yourself--no match for the awful growl of the Knight.  "Stay away--"

" _I said drop it._ "  He lifts a hand, gesturing as if he were crushing an invisible bug in the air--and an impossible vise tightens around your wrist, squeezing harder and harder until finally you cry out and your hand involuntarily releases.  The scalpel falls to the ground and the pain stops.

"D-don't touch them," you stammer.  "Th-they're out of the fight--not a threat--"

A beat of silence.  Then the being speaks again.  " _You have what I want; don't deny it.  You saw the Resistance traitor.  You know his face.  And you will provide that to me--_ "

"Absolutely _not_."  News images of the destruction in the Hosnian system flit through your mind.

The helmeted figure grabs your shoulders, shoving you back into a chair.  " _You will not keep your secrets from me_."  The distorted voice is lower this time.  " _I will have the information I require.  Do not resist, and you may well survive._ "

He kneels down suddenly, raising his hand within an inch of your face.  That dread mask isn't much further than that from your nose.  And then--the _tearing_ begins.

Your mind erupts into a whirl of voices and images.  Scenes from childhood.  People you haven't seen for years--mothers weeping for their stolen children--the horrible red beam lancing its way across Hosnian space...this one replays in a loop like a stuck holotape, each iteration more painful than the last, rage and grief warring like oil and water...

You become vaguely aware, in the middle of the hurricane, that you're hyperventilating.  What little awareness you have of the room is spinning out of control.   _I told you not to fight_.  The voice again--except--it's different.  Human.  Your heart seizes--he's in your _mind_ \--there's nothing you can do to chase him out.  The vertigo sweeps over you again with a nauseous wave and your hands whip up involuntarily to seize the only thing in sight that you can grasp hold of.

That rage again--it stabs through you and you vaguely realize what you've done...an image from reality, except distorted and the perspective is all wrong...it's your hands, encircling _his_ wrist.  He tenses--his Troopers' weapons go up...the panic rises in you...

You think you hear the words, " _Stand down_ ," outside the maelstrom, distorted this time, as you begin to get control of your breathing.  The images and sounds haven't stopped whirling, but you can bear it now.  Just.   _I don't have anything_ , you think through...whatever _this_ is.   _I didn't see him_ that _well.  Barely a second--_

_Show me._

Your mind returns to that place, an eternity ago it seems inside this hurricane of no-time and all-time you're locked into with him.  You can feel him inspect the image.  And...disappointment, when it dawns on him that you're telling the truth.  You saw something--but it isn't enough for him to make an identification.  You can _feel_ it, except it originates from outside yourself.  And there's more.  Fear.  Resentment.   _A scream.  But it's not your own.  Pain._  You're losing all sense of when, where...even _what_ you are.  You know just enough to recognize suffering.  If you could only stop it somehow--

_...sir, should we kill them all?..._

_...not today._

His hand sweeps across your field of vision--and with it, complete darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack:
> 
> Phantom Power Music: "[Overpowered](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VBlaWzMiZYw)" (suggested by Alkonybestia on DeviantArt)  
> Position Music: "[Neosphere](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WlJvcwiQslA)" (suggested by Alkonybestia on DeviantArt)


	2. Chapter 2

**Location unknown**  
**Time unknown**  
  
_You wander through endless corridors between fragmented dreams, your thoughts disordered and alternating between the illogical ramblings of the subconscious and more discrete memories of your past intermingled with the awful scenes from the First Order's attack on your village.  And the voice.  It intrudes once in a while on the shifting landscapes that comprise this realm of no causality--sometimes in its booming, electronically distorted form, other times unaltered, organic._

_\--shift--_

_...you're attending your first birth.  The mother--exhausted but grinning ear-to-ear as you finish clipping the umbilical cord under your mentor's watchful eye.  You hand the squirming, healthy child to her mother as your mentor pats you on the back in silent congratulations.  Joy and pride rises in you--_

_\--but the Stormtroopers are on the march.  The home where you helped deliver that baby is burning, and you have no idea who if anyone made it out alive or what awaits them in the streets if they did.  There are already injured, those who can running ahead of the white-armored brigade that you cannot see yet but you can hear off in the distance.  You know where you have to go.  What you have to do.  They need help, but your mentor passed before his time--_

_\--shift--_

_\--plunges to his death--_ NO.  
_  
The corridors again.  Interminable and winding but known for the moment.  The sense of a marching cadence, moving at a rapid clip that forces all others to the side.  The voice, furious but human:_...should not have happened!  It's impossible...  ...not like the other...  

_Someone speaks: light-haired, black uniform impeccably pressed, glaring.  "It's a waste of resources!  You already found what you needed--I'll send someone to dispose of that worthless trash--"_

_"_ No. _"  A pause.  Nearly a stutter in the step, narrowly avoided.  "_ I have...taken it under advisement.  What you said before, about not placing total reliance on a single asset."  _The distortion vanishes again._...have to figure this out before you...or him...

\-- _shift--_

_The door unlocks itself.  The sound cracks through your head like a bomb, too loud, too hard._

_He's coming._

_"_ Do not resist, and you may well survive."

_The masked figure raises his hand.  You fall back faster, faster--someone screams in anguish but it's not--_

__Your eyes snap open with a desperate gasp.  Your heart pounds--there was something there, something just an instant ago that you must not forget, something you saw or heard...but it fades and all you're left with are broken fragments of a hallucinatory, fever-like dream, too fleeting to assemble into anything more coherent than a diffuse sense of unease.

 _Then_ it registers where you are--after a fashion.  This isn't your bed, or even a cot at the practice.  You're laying on your back on a hard, unpadded bunk, save for a small, half-compacted pillow that couldn't be any thicker than two inches at its feeble best.  Your back hurts...no, your entire _body_ hurts from however long you've been sprawled out on this thing.

You sit up fast, upright, groaning as the pain jabs through your back and through to the rest of you.  It's cold; there are no covers to shove aside.  Your head hurts, too, which is little wonder after--

_A cell.  I'm in a cell.  Bastard took me--where?_

You look from side to side, defying an angry crick in your neck to do so.  It can't be more than six feet by eight feet, and the place is sparse to say the least.  Bunk--shelf, whatever it is...miserable excuse for a pillow...very basic hygienic setup...and that's it as far as any furnishings go.

Everything in here is a dark gunmetal grey, save for the porthole of sorts in the heavy vaultlike door, and outside...variations of the same grey.  You shiver, partly from the cold.  The color...it means something to you, but you can't place it.

Giving up on that futile line of thought, you set about crawling over every inch of your cell, searching for some way _out of here._ A weakness to the door, a garbage chute, a loose wall panel, even a sewage pipe, something...but your investigation yields nothing.  You feel an instant of wooziness--you have no idea how long it's been since your last meal--and you sit down on the edge of the bunk to let it pass and try to _think._   

Ah...mealtime.  If they plan to keep you, then they have to feed you, right?  Maybe they'll have to open the door and you can try your luck--but no.  You saw a sealed slot in the door a few minutes ago, too small to fit yourself through, unopenable from the inside.  That's probably what they plan to feed you through.  No viable escape path there.

You close your eyes for a moment, frustration and fear bubbling under the surface, just barely held in check.  Slowly you become aware of a subsonic hum, barely noticeable, that pervades your surroundings.  It almost reminds you of...the cargo haulers, when they would land in port, inasmuch as that glorified dirt landing pad qualified for the name, to drop medical supplies.  

 _A ship._   Your heart clenches inside your chest.  You're not on Dantooine anymore; you could be _anywhere_  by now if this ship has jumped to hyperspace while you were out.  And you're no pilot, nor do you have any other military experience.  Escape means wandering a confined space, hoping like mad that you can find somewhere to stow away, with only so many places you could hide in the meantime...you're going to have to consider this very carefully before you try anything.  And as the aching throughout your body reminds you, you're not in peak condition.  You're going to have to bide your time--assuming you have any...though something whispers in the deep recesses of your mind that you may have at least a little...and make any escape attempt count.

So you settle in to wait.  The light never changes, save for a flicker at the porthole once in a while as someone walks by.  You wonder if there are any guards posted just outside your door beyond your limited field of view.  You wonder if you've been forgotten down here, or if starving you out and maybe depriving you of sleep is part of their plan.  There's access to water at least, so they probably don't intend you to die right now...but it would be the understatement of the century to say that's a cold comfort.

Finally, after an interminable wait, you glimpse a Stormtrooper mask through the window.  The slot below the window slides open and and a gloved hand shoves a tray in without a word.  You make a grab for it, barely getting it clear before the slot slides shut again.

What greets you is a hunk of green rations that don't look like they were ever meant to be ingested by a human being, and a cup of thin broth to the side, accompanied by a spoon and nothing else.  The whole thing looks supremely unappetizing, but you know you don't need low blood sugar on top of everything else and who knows when or if you'll receive more.  Or when they might come back to take it away.  

The spoon barely makes a dent when you jab at the green stuff that looks more like a moldy hunk of insulation than food.  Desperate, you grab it off of its plate bare-handed and dunk it into the broth, disregarding the violent dissonance of the two scents.  Sure enough, you manage to spoon off a bite this time and you almost retch as you chew.  Holding your nose to tamp down the flavor, you choke it down anyway.

You get about half of it down successfully before your stomach finally threatens an uprising and you set the spoon back down.  When you let go of your nose, the horrid flavor slams into your full awareness again and you run--like you can call it that when it takes all of four steps to cross your cell--push the button and shove your mouth into the stream of water like a parched nerf.

After a minute or so of swishing some water around you successfully rid yourself of enough of the awful taste that you can function.

You go back to sitting on the edge of the bunk.  The pounding in your head subsides a bit, but something still feels a bit...off.  And after what you went through yesterday, it's no surprise.  You wonder how long it will take the rest of the headache to wear off.

Your thoughts turn to everyone you've been stolen from back on Dantooine.  How many casualties--how many dead or severely scarred because of your absence? The patients in your practice last night...that night...whenever...you think you remember them getting a reprieve from the Knight of Ren, but it was so hard to hear, so hard to distinguish what _kind_ of voice you were hearing by the end as the hurricane whirled through your head.  And even if they did get a moment's break, what about the next First Order soldier or Knight onto the scene?

It seethes below the surface, growing more and more turbulent by the minute.  What did you ever do to them?  What did _any_ of your people ever do to deserve this?  Heck, what did the _Republic_  ever do that was so atrocious as to justify anything the First Order ever did to them?  And now here you are stuck in a tiny box unknown light years from home, caged like an animal and fed table scraps, for who knows _what_ possible purpose--you're just a medic for crying out loud, not even a properly trained doctor, who managed to look out the window at the wrong damn time and not even get that much of a look at anyone Resistance.  It's not your fault--this whole thing is asinine--sadistic-- _stupid, incompetent_ \--

_CRACK!_

It almost deafens you as the sound ricochets off the walls of your tiny cell and it registers with some small part of yourself not swept up in the blinding fury coursing through every inch of your body that you've stood up and thrown your bowl at the wall.

And it's not enough.  Nowhere near enough.

Next the spoon--the plate with the remnants of that vile green _thing--_ then the tray itself with the biggest _clang_ yet--and when you're out of things to throw, your hand balls into a fist and before you can even begin to think, your knuckles slam barehanded into the metal wall--

You scream.  A warped fragment caught from outside somewhere: _I will deal with this._   Then _pain_ jolts you back into yourself.  Your hand--the pain is white hot, your fingers barely move...the fear races through your mind and freezes you solid into a statue cradling your dominant hand.  The first clear thought--you might have broken it.  The second--you could be in a world of hot water with your captors for this--this--

That brings you up horribly short.  You don't even know what _this_ is.

You've been through hard spells before.  This is probably the worst in your life, maybe even worse than the day your mentor went into cardiac arrest and you didn't make it there soon enough...true, that could be it, but you've only even come close to this once--punching a pillow, but all of _this_ \--a _wall_ \--

You're breathing hard--ragged gasps against the awful pain, trying somehow to catch your breath.

Then the hair stands up on the back of your neck.  You can _feel it_ \--insistent, undeniable--

 _He's coming_.  And you only have seconds before he gets here...that black-robed, masked Knight of Ren.

You don't know how you know.  You just _know._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Note:** Some things took place here that some of you may be feeling is OOC for you. If you feel that way...just trust me, I have a plan, and some of you may already be spotting a few of the warning signs...
> 
>  **Songs:**  
>  J2--["Somebody's Watching Me (Epic Trailer Mix)"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=89ct3aVrikM)  
> Sigur Rós--"[Untitled 8/Popplagið](https://www.deviantart.com/users/outgoing?https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qN4s75Srcos)" (Trust me, at least listen to the second half...)


	3. Chapter 3

With a solid _clank_ , all of the heavy bolts holding the door in place retract.  You just barely manage to step aside before the door swings open so fast that it would have knocked you clear off of your feet.

It's him: the Knight of Ren.  

He takes a step onto the threshold, and in the confines of the cell, there is nowhere to retreat where you wouldn't feel the oppressive sense of him towering over you.  You hardly know whether the fact that you haven't stepped back any further, or climbed onto the bunk, is because you're standing your ground or you're frozen in fear.  And agony.  Your hand--the one you slammed just a minute ago into the steel bulkhead--still shoots knives of horrific pain throughout your body.

Like before, he's flanked by two Stormtroopers--but this time he turns to them and barks out a single, electronically-modulated order: " _Out._ "  The white-armored figures beat a hasty retreat.

He steps into the cell with you, forcing you to retreat to the other side...into the debris field of your rage...just to get some sort of control over your sense of claustrophobia.  And as if that weren't terrifying enough, he gestures towards the door...and it softly slides shut as if of its own accord.

You get an odd sense that the Knight of Ren is only slightly more enamored of the tight quarters as you--at least, his manner strikes you as before as someone constantly on the move, someone who parades, who paces, who almost never finds himself still.  There's a tension about the black-robed figure.  His shoulders hunched slightly forward, knees bent just a bit as if about to charge at something, and his fists are balled tightly, though you notice him surreptitiously clench and unclench one hand.  Something about that gesture sends a chill down your spine.  

_It's impossible_...

He takes in the sight of you, and the wreckage of that... _explosion_ of yours.  His finger stabs forward, demanding.  " _What_ is _all of this?_ "

_I will deal with this._

__You _heard_ it before.  You heard _him_ speak those very words, just as your fist connected with the wall.  If he had been nearby then, it should have been fainter, muffled by the door, _something_ , but you heard it utterly clear and devoid of additional distortion from a comm system.  It slams into you, your knees almost buckling for a second--

You thought the inferno had burned itself out a few minutes ago.  Apparently you were wrong.  Outrage swells inside and the next thing you know, you hear yourself firing back at the Knight of Ren: " _You_ explain this!" _He's going to kill me, he's going to kill me_ \--

And then...as though by a wordless, soundless all-clear signal, you know.  The deathblow isn't coming.  Your trembling subsides...just slightly.  There _is_ still the throbbing, stabbing sensation in your injured hand.

You don't want to say it.  _Anything_ not to say it--that invokes it into being.  He regards you beneath that mask.  Flexes the one hand again, as if to make sure he still can.  " _You're_ the one who did this!" you shout.  And then--your throat tries to close.  Your next words emerge as a trembling half-whisper.  "You're...you're _still in my head_."

For a second, the Knight of Ren goes still.  Then, slowly...he nods.  Past the vocabulator that distorts his voice, you can hear it--how his tone lowers.  That brief catch in his throat as he speaks.  " _Yes.  I am._ "

Your back presses hard against the wall.  If there is debris from where the leftover food smacked into it, you don't feel it.  You don't care.  "S--so what...what are you going to do?  What does this mean?  You're going to interrogate me again?  I th--thought I didn't have what you were after.  Not enough, anyway.  I'm just a local medic--I don't know what else I have that one of you people could want--"

You sniff back all of a sudden, aware of the taste of salt running down your throat.  _Don't do it_ , you will yourself, despite your injury.  Despite... _him_. _Don't do it.  I am_ not _going to do it, I am_ not _going to cry_.  Your fist clenches involuntarily--the damaged one.  The pain jolts down your arm like lightning and paradoxically your focus sharpens for a second.  You suck in a hissing breath.  The tears are at bay--for now.  And even though you can't see them for the visor of his mask, you become deeply aware of the sense of his eyes, scrutinizing you very closely indeed.

" _There will be no other interrogation_ ," he intones.

"Then...what, are you going to let me go?  I don't know what you've been doing this for--what I'm supposed to have proven to you.  Have I proven it yet?  Are you satisfied?  Are you going to get out of my mind now?"

Your skin crawls.  You have such a bad feeling about this...

_I can't._

__It's the other version of his voice--the one from inside the center of the storm during the interrogation.  The human one.  The _real_ one.  And there it is, ringing once again between your ears even sharper than the whisper of your own thoughts, as clear as the hypnogogic hallucinations one hears drifting off to sleep, except you have never been more dreadfully awake.

You're shaking all over, despite yourself--not that it matters.  He'd know anyway, damn it, he'd know.  "What the _hell_ do you mean--"

He reaches up with both hands in a swift, fluid motion that startles you into silence.  One hand grasps the back of his helmet, the other the faceplate.  With a mechanical hiss, the faceplate slides forward and he sweeps off his mask to reveal...

...deep brown eyes, locked upon yours, full of sparks, full of war--a trick of the light perhaps, but you can't help seeing it anyway as you take in the face they belong to: pale, long, sharp-angled, framed by long black hair that falls in waves about his face.  Even with the long slash of a scar _..._ a healed burn, you observe...that traces its way from forehead to cheekbone, it's obvious he's younger than you would have ever thought with only a glance at him in his mask--much closer to your age than that of your late mentor--but this only startles you for a fraction of a second as you realize this is the truth you _knew_ from his other voice.  The true one.

He sets down the mask, then raises a long finger, still gloved, to his lips.  _Don't_ ever _mention it that way!  Aloud._   His eyes bore into yours just as you sensed before he uncovered his face.  Insistent, smouldering, yes...but, if you can trust your senses, that's not all there is.  You perceive faint hints of confusion.  Perhaps even...fear.

Under your breath you whisper, " _What do I do?_ "  You don't _want_ to do anything, you don't _want_ to comply with him, but you don't have much of a choice.  You did it before, what you think he's asking, but that was inside the chaotic cyclone of the interrogation.  You don't know how to do it again, out in the relative calm.

_Form the intent as strongly as if you were going to speak--but don't use your voice.  Don't open your mouth at all.  If it happens as I expect...that should be enough._

__You break eye contact for a moment.  It's becoming too much, this tiny cell, the unmasked Knight of Ren's stare upon you, and his voice, silent but so damned clear inside your mind.  But he's waiting for an answer, and the longer it goes, the more you'd swear you could _feel_ the weight of expectation upon you.

Collecting yourself as best as you can under the circumstances, you look up, meeting his eyes again.  _Do you hear_ this _?_ you think as forcefully as you can, nearly to the point of shouting but cutting it off at the last instant.  A flash of anger returns, but you push it back down as quick as you can.  You don't want to get yourself killed.

He nods, crossing his arms across his chest.  The look that flits across his face for an instant--unnerved.  _I do.  And that shouldn't be, for someone who doesn't have that degree of the Force._   You can almost hear the capitalization of the word.  He catches on to your ignorance; you're not sure whether it was the look on your face or if he pulled it from your mind.  _The immeasurable power that runs through everything, that certain people can wield as their tool to make the world around us do as we please.  Some of us have much more than others, and we--_   He interrupts that train of thought, turning something over for a moment, out of your...'hearing,' for lack of a better word.  _This_ wasn't _supposed to happen!_

 __You flinch at the sudden forcefulness of his voiceless speech, and you feel for a moment the instinctive terror of being caged in a tiny cell with a ferocious beast, one that any second might leap forward and--the anger spikes, but then it passes, as if deflected somewhere else.

Without thinking, you open your mouth to ask what he means--but he raises a hand in warning, and shakes his head.  Right.  No spoken discussion of this... _thing_ he's done.  Concentrating, you send the question: _This was some kind of_ accident _?  And you can't undo it somehow?_

 _I have conducted_ many _interrogations, all successful._   For some reason you get a sense that he's bending the truth on that one--just slightly--but you're not about to press him.  _Something happened this time, and I have no explanation for it.  Nothing that would normally break the connection has worked._

 __You shiver--and this time it's not the pain from your hand.  There _is_ one method you can think of that would be guaranteed to end whatever he has used this ineffable Force of his to do to you.  And from everything you've heard about the First Order and the Knights of Ren in particular, and everything you saw back on Dantooine, you have no doubt that if he locked onto that as his solution, he wouldn't hesitate.

You meet his eyes, and even though maybe you could have asked the question out loud without another reprimand, since it isn't _technically_ on the forbidden subject, you're not about to take that chance.  What you're about to ask him is dangerous enough as it is.  _What are you going to do with me?_

 __His dark eyes dart off to the side for a second.  Then he looks back and the response rings tersely in your mind. _I have to think on that._   You don't know whether to hope, or to despair.  So he _is_ thinking about it, almost certainly.  About killing you.  But at the same time, he is still undecided, and you can _feel_ that it's true as you watch the young man, with his arms still folded across his chest.  You see one of his hands tense again like before, then release.  _You will not speak to_ anyone _about this_ , he warns you again.

You nod, wondering if you could have gotten the words out with the lump forming in your throat.  _I understand._

 _Good._   

Next he crooks his finger, beckoning you towards him.  This time he speaks aloud.  "Show me your hand."

The sight of it, when you look down, is every bit as bad as you feared.  Everything around your knuckles is swollen and angry, and the thought of moving it even slightly almost turns your stomach.  And your mind screams for the seven feet between you and the Knight of Ren...the _last_ thing you want is to close the distance.  Your feet feel like neutronium blocks as you take each step towards your captor.  He puts out his left hand, palm up, and a chill runs through you: his meaning is unmistakable.  

For a second your ears ring and you feel dizzy--the pain and fear in combination, perhaps--but you shake it off, terrified of letting him see any sign of weakness.  You regain your balance, take the final step...and despite every instinct in you screaming not to do it, that this could be the beginning of a torture session, or even the prelude to your death, you steel yourself for the agony you know will result from his touch, and you set your injured hand in his.

His brow furrows as he scrutinizes the damage you did yourself, his expression odd--almost clinical.  He raises the other hand--also still clad in a thick, black leather glove, and...well, it doesn't matter how light his touch might be; regardless, it's excruciating.  _How can he even_ feel _anything like that, anyway?  What's the point?_   Then it occurs to you: it's _your_ perceptions he's making use of.  That's the only thing, insane as it is to think it, that makes even a _slight_ amount of sense.  

"Probably broken," he mutters, almost to himself, and he lowers his hands, releasing yours.  He looks up, eyes sweeping across the tiny cell, then locking back on you.  "Whatwas it--the wall?"

You're still in disbelief about it--the irrepressible _rage_ that boiled up inside until it ripped out of you with the subtlety of a grenade, culminating in...that.  You feel your ears and cheeks burn.  "Yeah."

Without comment, the Knight of Ren takes his mask and slides it back over his head.  The faceplate clicks into place, and he keys a switch before speaking through the voice modulator.  " _This is Kylo Ren.  The situation is under control.  But the prisoner has injured herself_ ," he...Kylo Ren, _Commander of the Knights of Ren_ , you remember...reports.  A pause.  " _No, it's not...it's a broken hand.  Someone will need to come bind that up._ "  Another pause." _I've secured the prisoner's obedience; that won't be a concern.  You have your orders.  Ren out._ "

So you've gone from euphemistically discussing the possibility of being put to death, to a medic being sent to your cell.  None of it is making any sense.  Then again...you notice him flexing his hand one more time.  He couldjust want an undisturbed night's sleep, regardless of whether or not this is your last night to live.

Ren hits the switch on his mask, and addresses you again.  " _I do_ not _want another call like this one.  Are we clear?_ "

Numbly, you nod.  "Clear."

Then he taps the side of his helmet with his index finger and your blood runs cold.  You hear his voice ring in your mind one more time.  _Not one word._

 __Before you can decide whether or not he intends you to answer him, Kylo Ren turns on his heel, sweeps the cell door open with a gesture, and marches out.  A Stormtrooper pulls the heavy door back shut and it slams with that _clank_ that leaves no doubt you're locked back in, alone.

Your lips twist into a bitter, mirthless rictus at that thought.  _Alone_.  Even when the voice is absent, that's the one thing you may never be again, for however long you have left to live.  Escape suddenly shrinks from a remote plausibility to zero probability.  Anything you do--it could be seen, your location pinpointed through your own eyes.  Even if you somehow stowed away, jumped to hyperspace before he or anyone else had the chance to react, even _that_ wouldn't help; you're just about sure of it.  If Ren had thought distance would solve this, he would have jumped to another star system, clear of the problem he recklessly created.  He never would have kept you aboard his ship.  

No--Kylo Ren could track you to the ends of the universe, and there is nothing you could do about it, and may the universe take pity on anyone who might be in the way.  And even worse--if you saw the Resistance again, and not just the blurred figure of a single downed pilot on the run, then you would be an accessory to their murders for going near them in full knowledge that anything you saw or heard might be used against them.  What about your friends and family back on Dantooine, even them, if they tried to aid you?

Your last reserves of energy--the ones you expended keeping a brave face in front of Ren--finally run dry, and you barely manage to sit down gently on the hard bunk before you collapse into a ball, your injured hand cradled against your chest once more...and at least for now, at least until the medic comes, you cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs:
> 
> Moonbooter--["Dark Dark Heart"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gfyk9HyZaj0)  
> Lacuna Coil--"[When a Dead Man Walks](https://www.deviantart.com/users/outgoing?https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7Tp9EZgJf8s)" (recommended by Daelin on AO3) I can imagine it being both of them, after this has taken place, and the seriousness of the situation sinks in. I love the seamless tradeoffs here...


	4. Chapter 4

They never turn out the lights in this damned cell.

It's no mystery what that's for--pre-torture protocol, you're sure, though true to Ren's word, there's been no other interrogation and no one actively tries to wake you whenever you manage to drift off.  Still, it wears on you.  The only way to get any sleep at all is to curl up in a ball on that pitiful metal rack that passes as a bunk, your head as close to the corner of the cell as you can, curled almost into the fetal position.

You found a way two nights ago--the second night, you believe, to attune yourself to ship's time, or at least something that will serve you well enough to keep your body clock from going completely awry.  It's a lessening of wordless tension, a stillness of sorts, though even that description only barely holds since it's still no substitute for that slipping sense of what you once called normal.

And even then, sleep still doesn't come easy.  What you manage is fitful, and on a couple occasions the waking comes with a horrid electric jolt to the nerves that shocks your heart and steals your breath for the first few seconds until reality kicks in.

Not that reality is much better.  Here in solitary confinement your ears know only silence.  And there are the tears for all those you care for, that you have lost and dare not reconnect with even if you had the chance.  And then there are those times when all you can do is take that pathetic excuse for a pillow that adorns your bunk and ball it up as tight as you can, shaking with the utter outrage of your situation, trying your best to control your breathing, to ride it out however long it takes until it passes.  The pain in your hand is already much improved thanks to the rapid-heal bacta splint the First Order medic wrapped it in, but that--and Ren's admonition--serve as stern reminders of what you cannot afford to do again as long as you remain prisoner.  As long as you remain alive, that is.

You'd almost wonder if you'd been forgotten down here, except that you're still being fed on something of a regular schedule--not that gagging down those awful rations is getting much easier--and the medic returned yesterday to check on your hand.  He asked if you had any other complaints.  Though you still have a bit of a lingering headache as your mind slowly adjusts to its new status quo, you daren't forget Kylo Ren's adamant warnings.  So you deny it until the medic leaves you alone.  This is the test you must pass to win a reprieve, or so you hope: can you keep your silence, can you live with it...

And if he still finds no way to break the connection...can _he_ live with it?

It's hard to tell.  Even with the near-subconscious ebb and flow of the mercurial not-self that never truly fades, and the rare moments when the voice carries through in spite of itself, you can't be sure.  And as the weight of your imprisonment grows on your mind, so does the temptation to just _ask_.  This thing that not long before would have been inconceivable--distance doesn't matter.  But what if sending an unexpected thought to Ren erases any willingness he might be harboring to spare you?  So you resist, even though the task grows harder by the hour.

You're sitting on the bunk, your feet up, leaning against the wall with your eyes closed against the ever-present, struggling to clear your mind enough to catch some hint that it might be time to end another damnable day inside a tiny cell, when suddenly you feel anything _but_.  Alertness.  Movement.  Intent.  All of these combined--you didn't sense it as strongly the last time, still caught in the throes of that ferocious explosion, but you _know_ just as you did before.

He's coming.  And his decision--whatever it is--is made.

You stand and stretch, then rub your eyes in a vain hope to chase away the fatigue.  You run your fingers through your hair--the best you can do in your meager circumstances--all of this to project a façade of strength and resolve that you know full well will collapse at naught but a glance.  Maybe it already has.  You think to yourself, _Who the hell am I going to fool?_   Still...it doesn't stop you from trying.

You straighten your back, square your shoulders--and _clank._

 __The cell door slides open again, _beckoned_ by Kylo Ren.  

Your stomach clenches as he stakes out that same spot against the opposite wall, and you keep out of arm's length--a considerable distance--but you refuse to look away.  " _I have decided_ ," Ren announces, " _that you may live.  You're being paroled under my authority_."

You don't know why you try to hide the sigh of relief.  The tension flowing out of your body, as you whisper, "Thank you."

" _Don't thank me too much.  There_ will _be conditions to your parole, that I'll expect you to follow closely.  If you fail, you'll be sent back here.  Or depending on the circumstances, you may yet be executed._ "  His tone is difficult to pick out in the electronic distortion of his mask--but you're not getting that sense of imminent danger like a blood-maddened nexu-cat lashing its tail before it strikes.  This gives you hope, at least, that execution may _not_ be what he sees as his first resort.  " _But we can discuss that elsewhere._ "

He retreats out of the tiny cell a few steps, then beckons to you.  " _Come on._ "

You take your tentative first steps out of the too-bright solitary confinement since being thrown out of here...four, five days ago, as best as you can figure.  A Stormtrooper guards each side of the entrance, and you eye them warily as you thread between them.  One slips ahead of Ren as soon as you're clear; the other takes up a position behind you both, weapons at the ready.

You catch your first glimpse of the corridor outside the antechamber--and suddenly it crushes down upon you: the bizarre sense of familiarity without true understanding...and the _sheer immensity_ of it, not seen, but _known_ as if the echo of a recurring dream.  You've held out for this long against the psychological toll of your captivity, but now the contrast between this monstrous labyrinth and the tiny cell that has comprised most of your reality for the past several days becomes too much.  Your heart races and your legs feel weak...

Ren grabs your upper arm and pulls you back up before you completely lose your footing.  For a second, your ears ring and...there's a _shift_ in your vision.  Everything directly ahead multiplies but discolored and with a strange offset.  And for an instant the _knowing_ intensifies.  Then it all recedes at once, leaving you still feeling weak from your captivity but steadier on your feet than before.  Not driven to the edge of panic anymore by the sudden transition from solitary to the outside.  There's still a residual--but it's calmed enough that now you can bear it.

With his gloved hand still wrapped around your arm, Kylo Ren starts marching down the corridor.  You're almost forced to run to keep from being dragged, but you find that if you lengthen your stride like his, you can just manage to keep up.  It's a challenge to maintain this clip, but as stiff as the confinement made your muscles, this is an improvement.

By the time Ren even slightly seems to slow down, you feel as if you've traversed half the giant ship--one of those gargantuan Star Destroyers, twice as big as the ones you heard dreadful tales of growing up.  It's got to be; there's no way you could keep on the move this long on the same deck without running out of space on any other vessel.  Now, as Ren falls back to a somewhat less breakneck pace, you can take stock of the reactions of the First Order officers and support personnel your formation passes by.  By and far the majority reaction is to simply halt, move to the wall, and wait for the party to pass by.  A few dare offer a salute.  Another few--even _more_ daring--scurry on about their work.

Finally, Ren slows to something like a leisurely pace.  He turns his helmeted head to the right, surveying the doors as you pass by.  You come to a stop in front of one marked _M-1390_.  Ren orders the Stormtroopers: " _Wait here_."

He leads you inside, where you see...

A single room, save for two sliding doors you'd guess lead to a closet and washroom, not at all spacious--probably the kind of thing that would normally be assigned to a very junior officer, if you had to take a guess.  And the lights are nowhere near as bright as they were in that awful cell; rather, between the dark grey walls and the lighting, it feels dim.  The lights are recessed into a trim that runs the perimeter of the ceiling so you can't actually see the fixtures themselves, just the diffuse light emanating from behind.  The sleeping area is just visible behind a waist-height partition that divides the room into two distinct spaces.  The aesthetic isn't much to look at; everything about this place is utterly utilitarian in nature, and dominated by dark gunmetal grey, with the occasional accents in silver and black, and in the one vague hint of color, a few dashes of dusty rose in the small sofa to your right, and the bedclothes.  Still, this place at least has the elements you'd expect of a place actually meant for human habitation.  

Ren releases his grip on your arm, but remains in what passes as a living area.  He walks over to the left wall where an office-style chair sits, and presses a button.  The wall panel slowly swings open and becomes a desk of sorts, also revealing a computer monitor. Lights snap on in the hidden alcove, creating a small workspace a lot brighter than what the overhead lighting provides the rest of the room.  

Kylo Ren removes his mask and sets it down on the desk.  He remains standing; you're certainly not about to take a seat either.  "You're aboard the First Order Star Destroyer _Finalizer_.  And these will be your living quarters," he tells you.  "Everything you need should be here already.  If not, contact the quartermaster department.  

"Now.  As I said before, I expect you to follow all of the conditions of your parole.  There will be _no_ escape attempts; I'm sure you've thought that through and you know very well it's not going to work."  You acknowledge this with a grudging nod, afraid to say anything else lest a response violate the _unspoken_ condition.  "And no interfering with First Order operations: that means no sabotage _and_ no sedition.  You will _not_ create disorder or disloyalty of any sort.  No circumventing your computer access restrictions, or using the communications systems for any unauthorized purpose.  On the outside chance you have a work-related reason to send a message off this ship, it goes through _my_ review first, and not just your supervisor.  No exceptions.  If you show me you can do this, you'll get a map of permitted areas and your guard will be dismissed.  If not--you know the consequences."

"I do."

Ren watches you.  "You have a question."  He leaves no room for denial.

"You mentioned work..."  You had an image at first of hard labor.  The kind of thing the First Order condemns aliens and Resistance to, the kind that breaks bodies, breaks wills, turns you into a shadow of yourself, and then you die.  But Ren mentioned the possibility, even an unlikely one, of having to contact someone off the ship.  That's not grunt work.  It doesn't even sound like what little you've heard about the less backbreaking, but still menial work given to prison trusties.  There's something else, and there's something  _very_  abnormal about it, to say the least.

The black-robed man infers the rest of your query.  "I've assigned you to the medbay.  You'll start training under Dr. Zarander tomorrow."  You can't believe your ears.  From dangerous prisoner to being trusted around patients--whom he has _got_ to know you see as the enemy--just like that?  

"Zarander will be your supervisor," Ren continues, "but you won't hold naval rank."  Well, _that_ much you expected, but that's not the end of it.  "And you'll treat injuries if they're sent to you, but you won't be involved in the Stormtrooper program beyond that."  

Sure, he had to be thinking of your subversive mindset--a shame to throw a wrench into that brutal indoctrination process, after all--but whatever the reason, you're relieved not to be affiliated with it.  You remember the abductions on Dantooine, years ago when you were growing up, before anyone ever realized the real gravity of the First Order threat.  The New Republic never acknowledged the truth, not even when the Dantooinian senators pressed them--not even when they were joined by other worlds with similar stories and similar protests.  But the rumors ran that all those innocent infants and toddlers had been stolen away in the dead of night by the First Order to be _broken_ like criloc foals and turned into soulless organic droids against the Republic.  A spark of indignation ignites within your breast but you push it down for now.  _Damned_ if you'll ever help with that.

It's what Kylo Ren says next, though, that catches you off guard.  "You will report through _my_ organization instead."

The Knights of Ren.

The dread myth wrapped up into the core of the First Order, the right hand of the Supreme Leader, the elite strike team capable of the most brazen raids of any organization tied to the First Order--the full extent of whose power no one on the outside had ever lived to tell.  If Kylo Ren is any indication, there could be hardly any limits on the deadly feats that even a single one of them could commit.  Even the rumors are too horrible to speak of.

And this is what you're being forced to affiliate with.

"I--I'm going to be--"

"Not in the same way as the others.  You're not suited for combat, not on the level I'd expect."  Strangely enough, it doesn'tcome off as a contemptuous insult.  "But in an auxiliary capacity, yes.  You'll be with the Knights of Ren."

You want to sit down--but you resist.  Still, all of this is too much--from village medic to prisoner to...some kind of rear-echelon Knight of Ren...and all of this with the mind of their commander, Kylo Ren himself, irreversibly bridged to yours.  Who the hell did you ever cross this badly in your life to deserve all this?  Why was it you--what if you hadn't looked out the window that night--why did he think you had what he was looking for...!

Breathe, you warn yourself.  Breathe, get it to subside as best as you can--damn it, it's so hard with him right here, but you  _have to_ , because you don't dare have another explosion right in front of him.  You don't even want to _feel this_ , where even what's inside you could leach out without a single move, a single sound, and give him a reason to destroy you...

The look on Ren's face in those two seconds is...strange.  Pensive.  Knowing.

_\--a flash of fire, burning red--_

This time the only sound is within your mind.  Had his words been out loud, they would have been deep in tone...soft, almost.   _You have to keep that from them, as much as you can.  As for me..._   A long pause.  _I know it's there._

You don't know what to say.  Even without having to actually _speak_ it, the words still elude you.

He sweeps his hand from one side to the other.  You flinch at the gesture, not knowing what objects might leap forth on their own or what new power the young commander of the Knights of Ren might manifest.  But nothing else comes.  And you realize there never was anything else to it...nothing more than relieving you of the obligation to answer him.

He catches your eye again though: there's more to come.  _I've said what I have to say about your assignment.  Now I'll tell you the rest.  I have...reason to believe that other elements of the First Order are trying to undermine the Knights of Ren._ You feel something...unsettled about his silent words.  Which makes sense, but the impression lingers with you for some reason.  _It may even be--General Hux himself.  You've heard the name, I believe._

 __You feel yourself drawing breath to answer, but you catch yourself quicker than the last time you tried this.  Instead, you nod, focus the words in your mind, and reply in kind: _I've seen a few things on the news._ Never as the lead story until the destruction of the Hosnian system--no, the Republic hadn't wanted to acknowledge the threat...just some angry, disgruntled little wannabes with a few inconvenient toys that the Republic could take away from the bad children any time, nothing to keep you up at night.  Then the genocide--and after that, after the Resistance claimed the destruction of the Starkiller base, came the lightning raids, some for no clear strategic reason other than to prove they could.  They hit Dantooine...and the news came to you and drew you into it.  _A few sound bites, an occasional article about the First Order...that's it._

 _He is...an extremely calculating man.  I think he wants the attention of Supreme Leader all to himself.  He refuses to acknowledge that there's something bigger at play--the ways of the Force--even when he sees the evidence right before his eyes.  And he's willing to take advantage of everything he can to climb the political ladder--doesn't matter if it's a windfall or it's a crisis, if someone does well or...if someone fails.  Hux is right there to take advantage.  He's ruthless, efficient, and excellent at grandstanding; I'll give him that, but his vision has no place for the Force._ Ren pauses.  His eyes grow distant for a moment.   _If he thinks that by ignoring it or stamping it out everywhere it's expressed, he'll wipe it from the Galaxy forever, he's badly mistaken.  The Force doesn't work that way.  It_ will _keep coming back, always._

Far be it from for _you_ to deny the Force now that you know of it--not when you hear the evidence right in your head.  So at least in that one way, the Knights of Ren have the truth of it.  But you can't say you like _either_ of the players in this game and you absolutely hate being dragged into the middle of it--and on the side that you suspect is severely outnumbered, at that.  And it's almost starting to sound like you'll be expected to pass intelligence...

 _So Hux has a problem with the Knights of Ren. Which you'd want to know about._ And that brings up something else.   _You didn't...set out to make any of this happen, did you?  The interrogation, the connection..._

 _No!_ Kylo Ren is incensed--even without sensing it, without hearing the bite to his soundless voice, the flash of indignation across his entire countenance, the way he bites his lip to keep from yelling aloud, would have been more than enough to tell you.  And behind his ire...a dash of fear.  He can't restrain himself enough to avoid jabbing his gloved index finger towards your chest and glaring as he hurls the rest of his thought at you: _If Hux--if_ anyone  _finds out about the...mishap, it might give him the excuse he needs to do exactly what he_ wants _to do!  This is_ not _a position I would have gotten into on purpose!_

 __Part of you almost feels _sorry_ for having made the accusation--not just for rousing his temper...but because, as it turns out, it was untrue.  You don't tell him that, though.  What you say instead is, _I've kept it quiet._

 _I know_ , Ren acknowledges, and the stormcloud recedes from his countenance.  _You'll be tested much more in the coming days; some people will not like that I've 'turned' you--that's what they'll believe--and brought you under my authority without any warning.  They can't be allowed to see anything different._   That's when it clicks: that's why, even with such extensive liberties, you still have an assigned guard.  It might be a merely symbolic gesture considering it would only take a thought to track you, but to everyone other than you and Kylo Ren himself, that symbol has to be substance.

But there's another symbol that it sounds like _is_ going to be shown openly: and that's this affiliation with the Knights of Ren.  It's a chance, but it _might_ be enough to get you out of the more...clandestine aspects Ren seems to be considering.

 _May I ask you another question?_   Your thought is tentative--enough so that you wonder if it'll register.  _Maybe not so much a question...I guess it's an observation._

Ren nods.  _Go ahead._

_If people know I'm...with your organization, they're probably going to watch what they say.  If you're expecting information, I don't know how much is ever going to come my way._

_Even if people know who you report to,_ _the whole truth is so far outside most people's imaginations that you never know what might happen._   _And not all intel comes from covert ops.  You might think that if you read a spy novel, but it's a little different in real life._ For a fraction of a second, you catch a shadow of a smirk--the kind that tugs on just one side of the lips.  He stomps on that expression _fast_.  You wonder if your eye would have even caught that if not for the connection between your minds, but before you can think more than a fragment of a thought, Ren cuts in with the rest of his reply. _Some comes from more 'open' sources.  In the Empire, some even had diplomatic cover, and everyone knew that touching that person was going to have some_ very dangerous _consequences.  Same thing here.  Most people should think twice before they try anything they'll regret._ __ __

That puts a chill down your spine--and not just because of the obvious threat of violence behind it.  You wonder what might've happened if you'd just been given over to the First Order's Navy.  If General Hux was the way Kylo Ren told you he was...might that mean it would be worse for you?  The image of Ren flexing his hand right after you broke your own comes to mind.  Might it even be more dangerous for _Ren_?

 _Now_ , he sends. _About the medic position--which is your main purpose.  I expect you to take it with the utmost seriousness, no matter who you're asked to treat._ His eyes hit yours with a laser certainty.  _You took a vow, did you not?_   The oath of the medical profession.  The one you'd had to swear back home before you'd even been allowed to start training, a moment of utmost gravity and pride, one you will never forget, no matter how long your captivity aboard the _Finalizer_ lasts.  And a moment so key to your core that Kylo Ren _had_ to have witnessed it for himself during the interrogation.

You're forced to admit it.  If you'd managed to cheat both capture and death in the raid, you were still on Dantooine, and you came across one of the First Order's Stormtroopers, you would've bitten back your outrage--even though it's hard to imagine now how you might've done that.  And you would have treated the patient.  It would be one thing if the oath you'd taken had been that of the Resistance.  But you're not Resistance.  You're not a soldier.  You're a medic, and he's asking you to...do what you would have done, anywhere else.

Even though a twisted part of you wished you wouldn't, you affirm it with a nod.  _I did.  And...you're right.  A patient's a patient.  If someone's hurt, I'm going to try to help._

 __Ren acknowledges with a gesture.  He picks up his helmet from the desk and presses the wall switch that makes the fold-out desk retract back into the wall and cuts the lights inside the hidden alcove.  Before he puts the mask back on he says to you, "You should rest.  You report for your first day after lunch hour."

Before you have a chance to answer, he's slipped his mask back on and disappeared out the door.

For the first several seconds, you stand frozen to the spot, your mind whirling too much to do anything else.  Finally, you snap out of it with a jolt.  Your first order of business...survey these quarters.  There's not much to this place--it's small, all right, but it definitely beats a six-by-eight cell.  

True to Ren's expectations, you find inside all of the basics you need to get by.  A bed with an actual mattress and covers--a separate washroom with a _shower_ \--these are luxuries now.  You even find a few changes of nightclothes inside the closet, along with--well, you're not going to look at it closely, or think about it for now.  You pull out a set of pajamas.  They're as grey as just about everything else in here, but the thought of getting out of the outfit you've been wearing for...you'd have to guess it's been almost a week...and getting a bath is feels like the closest you'll ever manage to heaven in this savage place.

By the time you finish your shower, you've barely got enough energy to dry your hair or do anything else to get ready for bed, and only just enough presence of mind to order the computer to wake you soon enough to leave you a couple hours before you're expected anywhere.

Finally, after a few minutes of fumbling around looking for the controls for the overhead lights, you crawl in between the covers.  You're aching, exhausted, and mentally drained.  

For a moment, in the darkness, you start to imagine you're home, just woken from the nightmare.  But the ever so subtle subsonic hum of the _Finalizer_ 's engines won't leave you to your illusions.  Nor do the shadows, blown about by a different wind, always floating around the edges of your mind.

No...this is not home.  And home can never be, lest by your presence you burn it all down around you.

You bury yourself deeper in the covers, pulling the bedspread and the other pillow over your head as if they can shield you from it all.  You fade to sleep quickly--but the last thing you know of this day is your tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:
> 
> You can find the floor plan for your quarters aboard the _Finalizer_ [here](http://rensknight.deviantart.com/art/Floor-Plan-Specs-SPOILERS-for-ASoE-Pt-4-587574268) on DeviantArt.
> 
> Also, you may wonder why Kylo knows anything about spying under a diplomatic cover. Hint--it's not the source he's led you to believe it is.
> 
> Songs:  
> Breaking Benjamin: "[Evil Angel](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bh0kvZyiyBY)" (suggested by AkitoKiki on DeviantArt)  
> Apocalyptica: "[Shadow of Venus](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LGhSgeWbX58)" (suggested by Little-Mad-Hatter992 on DeviantArt...kind of bleeds over into Part 5 as well.)


	5. Chapter 5

**Aboard the First Order Star Destroyer _Finalizer  
_ Six days after the Raid on Dantooine**

****_Scr-eeech!  Scr-eeech!  Scr-eeech!_

For a fuzzy, half-asleep second you blunder around for the cutoff switch, wondering how your cousin managed to slip in and rearrange everything so much as to disorient you this thoroughly, and replace your alarm with that that obscenely loud klaxon--

No.  No.  Reality pulls back at you and snaps taut like a tether.  That life is gone, except for the memories you carry of another way of being.

You gather your wits enough to jab the off button, noting that it no longer sends an electric shock through your body to use the fingers of your bacta-splinted hand.  You never had much access to bacta back on Dantooine--incredibly expensive stuff it was, and even in the best days of the New Republic, between the Empire and the First Order, trade never did stabilize enough to the Outer Rim to guarantee a steady supply of a precious commodity like that anyway.  Just maybe, you'll have an opportunity to learn more about the amazing panacea of the civilized worlds, which you know in theory but almost never have had the chance to see in practice--

Guilt burns your cheeks and you busy your hands with making up the bed.  Activity doesn't still your mind though.  This isn't the teaching hospital you heard about in the distant city of New Garang, you sternly remind yourself.  This isn't some sort of internship abroad.  And you--what you're to become...oh, some of it is familiar, some of it is a mere extension of what you were training for back home, but just the _proximity_ to the heinous work of the First Order is sure to worm its way into even the healing arts.  You'll have to be on your guard-- _for here there be loathsome wraiths that lurk in the shadows_ \--

The shadow--the nightmare--whatever the creeping dread was that woke you--

You only woke once last night--a miracle of mercy compared to what passed for 'sleep' in the cell, but when you did it was one of those terrible jolts that catapulted you wide awake in the dark with a shock straight to the core that choked the breath out of you and pricked at every last nerve ending in your skin and you just wanted to scream but you bit it back just in time.  And the damned thing of it was, you don't even know what it was you wanted to scream _at_ , what it was that threw you out of your sleep.  Some sort of nightmare...you don't remember what you saw, only that you felt small, helpless, like you were being crushed out of existence just by being--wherever.  And you would do--anything--to make the pressure relent.

Whatever thing crawled out of your...or _someone's_ subconscious--there's no way to tell with all the hell you've been through...you lost the image in an instant after waking.  But it still took fumbling your way to the washroom, getting a glass of cold water, and making a concerted effort to take your mind off the terror that woke you, to get yourself back to sleep.  It wasn't easy considering you just don't have that many good alternatives to think about.  But still you managed.

And at least it was only the once.  You still strung together enough sleep to add up to a full night and maybe even a bit more.  The headache is just about gone, too--though you still feel that wordless sense of externality that tells you its _cause_ most definitely remains.  At first you hate what that tells the scientific part of you--that whatever cortical remapping has to happen to keep your central nervous system from collapsing under whatever Kylo Ren's Force has done to you, is going well...for the most part.  You doubt you have much good to look forward to.  But you're alive.   And that counts for something.

You check the time again.  Two hours before before the second half of first shift.  Your stomach rumbles at that--and it's not just nerves.  You're hungry, and hoping desperately that you can find something besides the awful green stuff you subsisted on in the detention cell.

But before you can make your way to the living area, something catches your eye on the night table that you were too tired to notice before you went to sleep last night.  There's a datapad there, and as soon as you touch the screen, a scanning light flashes and the thing springs to life--biometrically locked to your fingerprints, you realize.  You're not sure why that surprises you.

Beneath your fingers, a title appears: _Star Destroyer_ Finalizer-- _Medical Bay Personnel Hierarchy._

 __A few experimental taps, and you realize that someone--it had to be Ren--left you the organizational directory for the entire medbay.  These aren't full personnel profiles--nothing you suspect would be highly classified--but it's something.

You grab the datapad and step out into the living area.  With an immediate left turn, you're in what passes for a food preparation area.  You start with the overhead cabinet to the left--and fortunately, you don't have to search far.  Your efforts are rewarded with a set of dishes and better yet...a few things that look like they'd make for a good breakfast.  None of it looks like Dantooinian food--not that you should have expected any, but you don't exactly care.

Ah...that looks good.  Sort of.  It looks like a muffin of some kind, and at first glance, the green berries embedded in the thing raise your suspicions.  You've never seen a color like _that_ on anything you'd put in a muffin on Dantooine, and after that horrid thing from the cell, that isn't exactly a color that earns your trust.  But as your eyes sweep over the alternatives, everything else looks like too much food at once, and with the condition your stomach is in right now, you doubt you could hold much more than this at a time.

Well, at least the smell that fills your quarters as you heat the pastry isn't too bad--it's enough to get your mouth watering when you pull the muffin out a few seconds later and throw it onto a plate, not even bothering with a fork.  You pinch off an experimental piece between your fingers, and sure enough--oh, your first taste of real food for almost a week!  Yes...it is positively glorious.

So much for restraint.  You recline on the small sofa and devour the muffin in what feels like seconds, then greedily slam down a glass of water right behind it.

That done, you pick up the datapad and as before, it opens to the organizational chart at your touch.  The chart is fairly unadorned save for the First Order insignia in the upper right corner of each profile: just job titles, departments, and service numbers beneath each name, a section featuring commlink routing and office information, and various rank insignia you figure you'd better start memorizing fast.  There are so _many_ names...what the population on this ship must be to justify a staff this size...maybe the teaching hospital isn't such an inappropriate comparison after all.  All right...start small.  That's the best you can do.

 _Dr. Rylkir Zarander--Head of Urgent Care.  Commander, FOSN._ First Order Star Navy, you work out.  

So now you know _where_ your assignment is...and it's not that far off from what you were training for at home.  But there's more, of course.  This could bring you into contact with just about anyone aboard the ship, and if Ren intends you to have your finger on the pulse of what's really happening aboard the First Order flagship for however long he keeps you in this position, it makes sense.  You'll do all you can to keep actual medical information from getting to him...the kind of thing a patient expects to never be shared...though you know very well that if your mind's voice carries to him without your choosing, and it likely does, just as his once in a while does to you, even under the _best_ conditions you can't guarantee anything.  And you hate that, especially since it is _this thing_ that exists between your mind and Kylo Ren's, which you must keep hidden at all costs, that makes you understand _why_ it means so much.

Enough thinking about that.  It's futile, and you're not particularly interested in finding out if it's possible to put a dent in your datapad with the way you're gripping it.

Okay.  Another name.  _Darak Thomlind--Head of Nursing, Urgent Care.  Lieutenant, FOSN._

 __You keep flipping through the names. _Kolroy Darveson.  Ashkil Janteris.  Tarah Garamon..._ and on and on--then you stop.  There's one other name you haven't tapped on, one you don't _want_ to see, but you _need_ to nonetheless.  You key Dr. Zarander into the directory search, scan down his list of direct reports...and there _you_ are.  You find your name, separated from the rest of the list by an extra line break.  When you tap on it...

There is no military service number, like the rest of the profiles you've seen so far.  The symbol that has been consistent in the upper right hand corner of every page--the red-and-black insignia of the First Order--vanishes, and is replaced by...something else.  Something jagged.  Angular.  And just as he told you last night, where any other crew member's profile has listed their immediate supervisor, yours doesn't link back to Zarander.  Instead, that field reads: _Kylo Ren.  Commander, Knights of Ren._

 __A chill wind blows through you.  There it is in image and word.

Then a moment of bravery: you tap _his_ name.

Nothing happens.  There is no active link; his profile is closed to you.  You can't help a snort of dark irony at that.  Appearances, of course...

Of course, this _also_ means you can't jump from his profile to find those of his true Knights.  Think.  You'll need to have a cover story for that in case you're asked.  Ah...of course: just say you haven't been initiated into the upper echelon of the order yet.  That's why you're still working in your old field despite what you are now.  Right.  It may even have a basis in reality, considering you're supposed to be such a recent turncoat.  Wait...no.  'Turncoat' doesn't capture the truth of it.  You never _heard_ the word from him, but the sense of it pervades you when you concentrate on the thread that ties you to Ren.  _Convert_.

The time display in the upper right hand corner distracts you--thank goodness for that.  It's time to finish getting ready.

You clean up from your breakfast-turned-lunch, and head over to the closet.  You caught a fleeting glimpse of it last night and you turned away...but today, you have no choice but to face it: the outfit, composed of a familiar mix of textured black fabrics, that will serve as your uniform for the foreseeable future.  So many impressions crowd your mind as you pull an already-assembled outfit out of the closet that you somehow _also_ manage to squeeze in an instant of wondering whether this cacophony of thoughts might give Kylo Ren a twinge in the head.  

The first thought is, this outfit is more complicated than it looks, and it's a good thing you were left with one fully put together to work from.  The second is, this thing looks to have been custom fit to your measurements.  That unnerves you at first--then it occurs to you that all it would've taken would be a readout from when the medic scanned you.  The third thought is, whatever its other connotations, one thing this dress doesn't even _begin_ to do is reduce your status to chattel.  You may be here involuntarily, yes--but that's hardly what anyone would take from _this_.

The leggings, for one thing, are made of a thick material that won't have any trouble keeping you warm.  The undertunic is next--and you can't help noticing that its sleeves bear a very familiar pleating.  The impression only intensifies when you slip the similarly-patterned midcoat on over it, which falls to just below your knees.  In fact, you're almost sure that aside from the tailoring, this is identical to what Kylo Ren himself wears.  There's a noticeable _weight_ to it, though not overly much--enough to make you wonder if this is armorweave, layered this way for additional blaster resistance.  

In contrast to Ren's outfit, though, once you slip the outer tunic on over your head, the pleated...armor?...ends up nearly all covered, save for an inch that pokes out from under the oversleeve, a couple inches below the hemline of the outer tunic, and a bit that shows at the collar.  There look to be places where you could secure a cape or cloak to the shoulders.  You think you spotted that folded up in a drawer earlier, along with a set of black hide gloves, but since they weren't waiting in the closet like you're expected to wear them, you decide to omit those pieces for now.  

The belt, despite the geometric pattern on the buckle, is far more functional than a mere accessory, and looks as though it provides you places to hook scanners, and whatever other implements you might need.  It almost reminds you of something you could attach a weapon to, though for obvious reasons, you have none.  The boots, too, are heavy, buckled, durasteel-plated on the insides but not uncomfortable to wear, and they have a substantial, very functional tread on the sole...

You force yourself to step back and look hard at the whole ensemble in the mirror.  This is anything but the neatly-pressed, finely-woven dress uniforms of the First Order.  And though it makes some concessions to the feminine, there is nothing delicate or decadent to the outfit, nothing even slightly resembling the lavish regalia of Naboo royalty.

No, the words that come to mind are--substantial.  Rough-woven.  Utilitarian.  _Imposing_.  It doesn't matter what your tasks for the day might really be for now--it _dares_ you to project the mien of power that completes it, regardless.  You square your shoulders, challenging yourself to meet your own stare.

This...there's no mistaking it.  Anyone who sees this will read without a word: that now, your allegiance belongs to the Knights of Ren.

It's almost time for you to go out there.  Time to show this face to the world inside this sarlacc pit.  The voices of your family and friends back home crowd into your head--not in the way they would never understand, the way that is real--but it's bad enough that you can almost hear what they _would_ say if they could speak into your mind as Ren can.

What are you _doing_?  Turn around, tell him no--better rotting in a cell than laboring for the First Order, better _dead_ than donning the vestments of a Knight of Ren!  Where is your courage, where is your heart?  Don't you care for your family, for your friends, for what's right, for who you are, who we thought you had it in you to be? 

Without thinking, you press the fingers of your splinted hand to your temple.  The woman they thought they knew... even if they could see you face to face, even if you tried to explain somehow and you had the freedom to tell them about the binding of your mind and Kylo Ren's, how could anyone even begin to understand what it really is to hear the voice of another's thoughts, to feel a sense of presence even when there's no one in the room?  To feel the crack in the foundation, that leaves even what you know as _you_ redefined in ways you haven't even begun to come to grips with?

How would they ever believe, how could they ever understand...that even _this_ you do for their protection, that your own eyes and ears might not be fashioned into the instruments of their undoing?  Could they ever really know how much it kills you inside?  Is it so terrible that enough of a spark still lives in you to keep you alive, even here?   All you can do is...just try to find your way.   
   
It claws at your heart--but you can't let anyone out there see that.  Not even the Stormtroopers you expect to find waiting for you when you step out the door.  

You grab the datapad, breathing slowly to steady yourself.  You're about to take a step forward, but--your name resonates through your mind, in Ren's voice.  You almost jump.  _Your 'minder' should be waiting for you about now._

You'd better answer.  _Yes..._   You think back to the personnel directory.  _Commander?_

He doesn't correct you; that must have been right.  Good--that's one more thing to say out there, to make yourself sound convincing.  He sends, _I expect you to succeed at all we discussed._

 __It almost sounds like an order.  A threat.  Everything about the tone, if he had spoken with his physical voice, would have resembled it.  Except that's _not_ all there is to it.  You turn your focus to the not-self and allow your own emotions to recede for a second, and you realize there's also something very literal about it.  That in his estimation...you actually _do_ have a chance.

It's...you don't know what to make of it.  Even when you return to yourself, you _still_ hardly know what to feel.  _I'll do the best I can_ , you answer Ren.  And then--it escapes before you have a chance to weigh your words.  _Thank you._

 __He doesn't directly reply, but something flickers on the other side of the connection.  It barely even registers--you don't think it was aimed for transmission and you might not have even noticed if you hadn't been paying close attention--yet you feel a wisp of a smile trace across your lips as if by instinct.  Or an echo.  It fades quickly enough, but for a fleeting moment, it was there.  Why should it matter to you--are you that desperate for _some_ sort of affirmation in the midst of all this darkness?  

Out.  Don't be late.  Don't make your minder, to use Ren's word, have to come in here looking for you.

You turn, catch a sidelong glance of yourself in a reflection in the wall paneling.  You draw yourself up to your full height, square your shoulders, and then you fix your stare straight ahead as you take the step ahead that triggers the door sensor.

Sure enough, a Stormtrooper awaits you.  Only one this time, and he doesn't draw his weapon on you like yesterday, or make a move like he intends to tow you down the hall the way Ren did.  So things are looking at least slightly up.  " _Come with me_ ," he says through the speaker on his helmet.  The voice sounds more human than the robotically distorted one that Ren's mask creates, and the tone...well, you're not sure, but it sounds businesslike to you rather than menacing.

You don't bow or give any outward sign of deference, just a quick nod of acknowledgment.  Something tells you that even 'paroled' as you currently are, those who serve Kylo Ren reserve true displays of obedience for their commander alone.  Your instinct appears to be right: this seems to suffice as far as the Stormtrooper is concerned.  He merely glances over once in a while to make sure you're still at his side as he leads you on the long hike to the medbay.

Though you try your best to focus on the path you're taking across the gargantuan ship, you can't help noticing the faces of the _Finalizer_ personnel out the corner of your eye.  They're not scurrying to get out of your way to the the extent they were with Kylo Ren, but you can tell: there's caution in their gazes, and it's not because of the Trooper at your side.  They take the sight of you in, but no one allows their stare to linger for too long.  They see what you're supposed to be--and it's definitely not one of them.

With more than a little touch of sadness, you think to yourself, _This isn't going to make it easy with the patients_.  Medicine, you've learned, is more than mere science--it's an art too, and half the artistic side of it is the connection you learn to foster with others.  Finding a way to do that now...oh, dear.  You're going to have to figure out _something_ to strike a balance so you can both do your job and maintain your Knight's 'mask,' but it's not going to come to you the same way as before.  It just can't.

A chill runs down your spine as you walk.  There are moments where something like a memory teases at the base of your subconscious mind--not exactly the same as the constant undercurrent you've come to recognize as Ren, but something that almost feels as though it's been imprinted in _you_.  When you look up, it feels like if you could see things just a bit differently somehow, they might become clear to you.  Familiar.  Once in a while you find yourself almost anticipating the Trooper as he turns, but just like that it fades again and you're back to absolutely lost without your 'minder.'

Finally, the corridor opens up and for a moment your senses of foreign and familiar _really_ war with each other.  This is it: the medbay of the _Finalizer_.

Your minder turns his helmeted head towards you and says, " _The medbay staff will take it from here.  One of us will be here for you at the end of your shift_."

"Understood," you reply.  Then something occurs to you.  "You know I could be late one of these days if I end up working with a patient past the end of my shift?"

Thankfully, the Trooper nods.  " _That came up in our orders, yes._ "  Good, so common sense prevailed, and no one is going to tear the place apart looking for you if that happens.  

"All right.  Then I'll see you when I finish for the day."

The Trooper doesn't budge...oh, of course.  He's watching to make sure you actually head into the medbay like you're supposed to.  Nowhere left to go but forward.

You head up into the... _enormous_ medbay.  Once you're inside, it's clear--this thing spans multiple decks, as if someone uprooted one of the multilevel buildings you've seen in holos of Dantooine's New Garang and drove it down like a peg into the enormous Star Destroyer.  This is the...well, if you weren't aboard ship, you'd call this the ground floor.  When you look up, you see staff going about their duties on what looks to be at least five decks above you as well as straight ahead.

That's enough gawking--you're not supposed to be fazed by things like this.  Time to figure out where exactly you're supposed to go.  Good--for starters, the Trooper didn't lead you straight into the potential chaos of the emergency department, or at least what would pass for chaos in the hyper-regimented First Order.  Ahead, there's a front desk of sorts; that looks like a logical place to start.  Destination selected, you aim yourself over there with the precision of an arrow.

This is it.  A First Order enlisted crewman looks up at your approach.  He can't help raising an eyebrow when it dawns on him you are decidedly _not_ one of his comrades, and you can't tell whether that look is mere surprise--or disdain.

All right...here goes.  "Dr. Zarander is expecting me," you say, trying to project as much confidence into your voice as you can.

"That'll be one deck up from here," the crewman informs you.  He looks down at his monitor, consulting a list--it takes him less than a second before he picks out your name.  You confirm, and he keys another switch on his console.  "Dr. Zarander," he says...must be a comm he's talking into.  "Sir, you have someone here to see you.  The one from _Ren_..."  The young crewman nods, listening to the response through his earpiece.  "I will."  He glances back up at you and points off to the side, a quick move, like someone looking to get rid of you as fast as possible.  "He'll be waiting at the lift for you; take it one deck up from here."

"Understood," you reply, and head over to the lift.

Inside, you get a few precious seconds to release a deep sigh.  That headache seems to be starting back, but this time you don't think it's Ren.  Not directly, anyway.  You quickly massage your temples.  But as the car slows to a stop, it's back to being...something else.

The door opens, you step out, and glance to either side--and that must be him, standing to your right.  Dr. Zarander is older than most of the First Order personnel you've seen around here--lines have begun to wear themselves into his tanned face, and he's old enough to have some grey in his hair to go with the grey of his eyes, and even a few specks of white.  He wears a grey doctor's coat over his black First Order uniform, which has his rank stitched onto it, and even something resembling the strange wristbands you noticed on some of the officers.

Like the crewman below, Zarander doesn't hesitate to name you on sight.  Unlike the younger man, though, the doctor's tone is undisguised: skepticism, some trepidation.  Not that you blame him.  You confirm your name.  He ponders that for a second and then asks you, "Should I address you as 'Ren'?"

You try to stop yourself from blinking in surprise.  That's right--'Ren' isn't a surname in the normal sense; the Knights abandon their last names, but it's a title rather than a true name.  You remember your personnel profile: no...Kylo Ren left your name alone.  So you shake your head.  "Not yet," you reply, hoping that's the appropriate answer.

Zarander seems to take that at face value.  "All right," he acknowledges.  "Well, then.  I'm Dr. Zarander, and you've been assigned to my unit for training.  Which--you'll have to forgive me, but we don't see much of the Knights of Ren down here."  Let alone in _this_ capacity, you mentally add, because let's face it, this is _weird_.  "This is going to be a _different_ experience for me."

You're going to have to work with this guy--even in the role you've been forced to play, you can't imagine it serves anything to be completely abrasive with him.  "Doctor," you begin--you can't call him 'sir,' but at least this title is a fact, a sign of respect you _can_ give him: "I think it would help if we sit down and discuss what it is...my commander has already told you, so I don't waste your time going through things you already know."

"My office," Zarander proposes.  You nod, and he leads the way.

Once inside, Dr. Zarander immediately takes a seat at his desk and sweeps a hand in invitation at the other chair.  Once you're seated, you open with, "I'm assuming Commander Ren spoke with you?"

Zarander nods, his eyes widening just a bit as he thinks back.  Oh, that _had_ to be an in-person visit; you know _exactly_ how that feels.  You get the feeling Ren doesn't usually remove his mask when he's dealing with circumstances more normal than...you.  So it's not hard to picture--and hear--exactly what was staring down Zarander delivering orders, maybe even right here in the confines of this office.  

"It was the day before yesterday," Zarander recalls.  So Kylo Ren must have meant to spare your life at least to that point, you realize, if not further back.  "He told me that he was....um...planning to bring you on in some capacity.  He said you have a medical background from the Outer Rim.  He told me your training was interrupted a few years ago and you've been making do ever since.  He said he wants to see that...'remedied,' was his word.  He wants you brought up to speed on more _modern_ practice."

Zarander narrows his eyes as he stares off to the side, caught up in the recall of what you'd guess is an unsettling memory.  "Even with whatever happened during your training, he seems to think you have a greater depth of knowledge than what your resources in the Outer Rim allowed you to practice, and that you'll...'perform well, with the right opportunities.'"  You have barely an instant to process what Zarander is telling you of Ren's words, before he looks back up at you.  "He didn't exactly tell me what he was basing that on."

Oh, no.  Oh, no.  You feel your heart start to accelerate...keep your face still.  Keep your breathing steady.  It's not something Ren should have any expertise in, to tell a doctor what his judgment should be.  But _you_ know what Ren rests his conclusion on.  Don't react.  At least if you do, don't give a sign that there's anything else beneath.

"My commander and I spoke in detail about where I came from and what I could give him, after he showed me the extent of the power he wields and I decided I wanted to follow him on his path."  Two half-truths told as if separate and ordinary steps instead of one and the same moment of impossible chaos, and one half-lie if you count your desire to survive as that which gives the lie an element of truth.  Let it hold.  Please let it hold.

Zarander nods slowly, pondering.  "You'll forgive me for putting you through an assessment over the next weeks, assuming I have you with me for that long.  _Not_ to imply anything about Commander Ren!" he hastily interjects.

"You're doing what I would do in your place," you assure him as best as your circumstances allow.  "I don't blame you for wanting to gain a full understanding of what he told you."

The doctor visibly relaxes at that.  "And your long-term assignment?" he asks.  "Commander Ren didn't tell me how long he expects you to be here."

You bow your head, the very sign of deference you couldn't give to the this doctor, your supervisor.  "My commander hasn't shared that with me, but I'm sure he'll tell me when the time is right.  I do want you to know, Doctor..."  And _this_ you truly can say from your heart.  "That as long as I do have this assignment, you will have my full effort whenever I come through this door."

"Hm.  I appreciate that," Dr. Zarander admits.  You can sort of guess what he must be thinking, not that you can actually hear it: he may have drawn the short straw to get stuck with this strange woman who's suddenly fallen in with the Knights of Ren, and he may understand even less of what the hell is going on here than you do, but at least he doesn't have to deal with an aggravated Tatooininan krayt dragon stalking around his wing of the medbay instead of contributing usefully.  

Zarander says, "There is one thing I need to ask you about, though."  

He points towards your lap.  Or more specifically, your hand, still in its splint, which is folded across it.  Oh, damn.  Maybe he's not rid of those visions of krayt dragons after all.  

"Your injury.  That was one of my people--Lieutenant Thomlind--who got called to the detention block to treat you.  I reviewed your chart as well.  _Before_ Commander Ren told me he was bringing you into his organization," he emphasizes.  He struggles fiercely with what to say next.  Your stomach sinks to the floor.  "Look, I don't want to pry too deeply into...ah...Knights of Ren business, but the way Commander Ren reported it was as self-inflicted, and the fracture pattern agrees with that.  That's not a trivial amount of force, that it requires to break your hand.  And what little Lieutenant Thomlind and I managed to piece together about the...incident that led to it..."  Zarander swallows, hard.  "Listen, I mean _no_ disrespect towards you, or your order, but it's...not the first time I've heard of this kind of, ah...violent outburst.  N-not another one from _you_...but this concerns me."

Ashamed, you hope the blood rushing to your cheeks in spite of yourself isn't too obvious.  It's altogether too easy for you to see what Zarander sees in that explosion.

Just like the moment when Kylo Ren himself burst into your infirmary back on Dantooine and you reached for that scalpel, ready to die if you had to, to keep him from savaging the injured.  It never happened--he...he called his men off, if the strange, kaleidoscopic memories of the interrogation tell you true...but you know that fear.  The fear that _you_ inspired in Dr. Zarander, with that horrible, utterly out-of-control tornado of rage.  The thing that lies dormant in you right now, but never again truly dead.

You interlace your fingers, a move you can just manage now, even with the bacta-splint half immobilizing your dominant hand.  You look your soon-to-be supervisor in the eye.  "Doctor, I understand how this must look."  You let out a slow breath in spite of yourself.  Damn, but this is so hard to speak of with anyone--it shocks you to realize it would be easier to 'talk' frankly about it with _Ren_ than it is now, with Dr. Zarander.  "What my commander told you is true.  I...was responsible for my own injury.  But when I gave you my word that you'd have my full effort, I am including that, too.  What happened in the detention cell--that is something I _don't_ intend to repeat.  I want you to know that I take the needs of my patients _extremely_ seriously.  And even if for some reason, all else failed, and I...had to remove myself, I promise you that I would do that--safely for the patient, and quickly."

You swear this to yourself, every bit as much as to Zarander.

It doesn't entirely put him at ease.  And for a sensible man...it probably shouldn't.  You haven't entirely forgotten how to see _outside_ of the insanity you're caught up in.  But in a far less incisive way than what's happened to you, Dr. Zarander's now caught up in it too.  The normal has to go to the wayside, and you both know it.  "All right," he says, a touch uneasily.  "I give you _my_ word I will do my best to put that behind me.  Perhaps we can start by going out there and seeing if you're ready to get that splint off.  We'll use this to get a baseline on where you're going to be starting from.  And tomorrow we'll go through the morning sick call together, and from there I can draw up an initial training plan and fine tune it as you continue."

You nod.  "That should work, Doctor."

You hope so, anyway.  It's hard to say, without knowing exactly what Ren envisions as the end goal of all of this.  But it at least sounds like even if you don't exactly have an ally in Dr. Zarander, you _don't_ have an enemy.  Goodness knows you need at least one person around here that probably won't stick a knife in your back.  Who might harbor something other than unadultered ill will for you.

That gives you pause.  You think back to some of the other things Zarander said, and that silent interaction from earlier, and it dawns on you.  You don't have time to really work out what it means, but one thing seems increasingly possible to you.

Zarander may not be the only one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note:  
> You can see what your vestments look like [here](http://rensknight.deviantart.com/art/The-Lady-Knighted-589482374), on DeviantArt (cloak and gloves seen in the drawer not shown).
> 
> Songs:  
> Apocalyptica--"[Shadow of Venus](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LGhSgeWbX58)" (this song kind of worked from the end of Part 4 into 5, for the "transformation" that occurs here)  
> Saltillo--"[Proxy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wwec-2nlmz0)" (even the title is crazy perfect...and the Shakespeare lines, once unscrambled, are unbelievable and fitting for a certain fallen prince...see below for that.)  
> Saltillo--"[If Wishes Were Catholics](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9cHTsGaGmuk)"
> 
> Lines from Shakespeare's _Henry the Fourth_ , included in "Proxy" (unscrambled, lines in brackets not included):
> 
> I know not whether God will have it so  
> For some displeasing service I have done,  
> That, in his secret doom, out of my blood  
> He’ll breed revengement and a scourge for me.  
>  _[But thou dost in thy passages of life_  
>  _Make me believe that thou art only marked_  
>  _For the hot vengeance and the rod of heaven_  
>  _To punish my mistreadings. Tell me else,]_  
>  Could such inordinate and low desires,  
> Such poor, such bare, such lewd, such mean attempts,  
> Such barren pleasures, rude society  
> As thou art matched withal, and grafted to,  
> Accompany the greatness of thy blood,  
> And hold their level with thy princely heart?


	6. Chapter 6

_Twilight._

_The village is strangely depopulated.  Abandoned.  Though every edifice stands completely intact and immune to the ravages of all it should have endured, not a single neighbor remains in sight.  It's as if you're completely alone, though for some reason that strikes you as impossible.  An illusion.  You press on towards some sort of goal--you don't know what, only that you must keep moving until you pass beyond the places where people should have dwelt._

_Down the narrow road you walk, neither airspeeder nor groundcar in sight, until nothing but natural vistas remain and you turn from the path into empty fields.  The grass has gone dormant.  You glimpse a leaf falling from the branch, dry and crackling brown in the wind.  An orange glow remains before you to silhouette the foothills ahead--but Dantooine's dual moons dominate the cloudless sky, the first overhead at half phase and the second a slim and arcing crescent at lower elevation, both giving proof to the unseen sun half an hour gone below the horizon.  A glance behind you, towards the darkness, reveals the pinpricks of the first and brightest stars piercing their way into sight._

_It is by the united glow of these denizens of twilight that you behold the river below, ancient and familiar.  You know the path down to the bank where you've come many a time to reflect on joys and sorrows alike.  You know the feel of the current as it enfolds your body, for here the river flows gentle enough that you can wade right in.  And you have done just that in better days, you haven't forgotten..._

_Crack.  Snap.  The distant sound of twigs snapping underfoot, one right after the other, no attempt at stealth.  The sound of wind slipping through the needles of--conifers, tall and green, already in the grip of winter.  It doesn't occur to you to question the strangeness, how this reality exists side by side with the overlook to the old river.  It wasn't there before.  Now, it_ is _.  And you accept this._  
_  
There--you feel it before you see it--the silhouette of a tall figure robed in black crashing through the woods, his frantic gaze darting back over his shoulder as if being pursued.  Undisguised fear catapults him forward, forward until...he stops.  For here the woods end, and ahead--the overlook.  The river._

_For a fleeting instant, astonishment.  All that lay behind is suddenly forgotten.  Almost.  The tension hasn't all gone out of him, though he stands nearly frozen save for his breathing, his eyes scanning the horizon.  He makes no move forward--no, no move at all, not even to turn and look in your direction.  Fixed ahead in a palpable self-imposed motionlessness, his eyes take it all in, the remnants of sunset glow and the dual moonlight skimming the water._ _His head bows as he turns his full attention to the river below, and he makes no effort to hide as he regards the tableau with countenance somber and forlorn...it reverberates across the distance in silence..._

__**Aboard the First Order Star Destroyer _Finalizer_  
** Seven days after the Raid on Dantooine  
  
Even as you follow the Stormtrooper to the medbay for your firstfull shift, the memory of the dream you woke from this morning does everything it can to pull your mind back to it.  

He was there.  That was no mere image.  He was _there_.  It had to be--images don't feel...don't _feel_...words were never meant for this foreign reality, though you try.  How long has this been happening--this is the first time you can _remember_ it, but has this been happening since the beginning?  Does _he_ remember?  Does he hold memories you don't?  What has he seen--what have _you_ seen, but forgotten on waking?

You barely resist the urge to shake your head, as you mentally knock yourself back to reality.  You can't afford _that_ kind of reverie out here--that degree of concentration on that which exists past your own thoughts could...well, you _don't_ really know.  It could be worse than mere distraction.  It could pull you into a trance, for all you know.  Or maybe not.  But you can't risk it.  

You have to focus, try to learn the way, not let anyone see your distractions and uncertainties.  It's bad enough with everyone else trying to figure you out--they can never know that you haven't actually figured _yourself_ out yet, that you're anything but the dead certain, unswervingly loyal convert aimed squarely at the path ahead.  And who, as a non-Force-wielder, to borrow from the terms you've heard Ren use, most definitely does _not_ have a permanent commlink in her mind to Commander Ren.

Today you won't just face Dr. Zarander and Lieutenant Thomlind: you'll face your first patients, and that worries you.  

As for Thomlind, that was already strange enough for you yesterday--Thomlind's the only one of the medbay staff who actually saw you in that cell, the one who bound your hand.  Perhaps he found it surreal too: he's directly witnessed your change in status in its full enormity and full suddenness.

Then again...you never once allowed him to see your tears, not even when he set your broken bones into position.  He'd remarked on it, though you offered no real comment in return, that most people in your position would have screamed from the pain.  It wasn't that you didn't _feel_ like screaming--the agony almost blinded you.  Still, you ground your teeth and gripped the shelf that passed for a bunk with your other hand until the knuckles went white, and bore the pain in silence--screaming wasn't a luxury you dared allow yourself when the last thing you could afford was any other sudden action that might alarm your captors.

You had no idea then, what else your act might be laying the groundwork for.  Nor how _soon_.

You enter the medbay complex, part ways with your minder, and step into the lift--by yourself again, thank goodness.  Thirty seconds to yourself.  To _be_ yourself.

Just...seven days.  That's all it's been.  Like time dilation.

That's the only comparison that even _begins_ to describe what all of this is like.  It's the reason hyperspace travel exists: the alternative is travel at relativistic speeds where you experience a journey that lasts for eons as if compressed into mere months--weeks--or days.  That's what all of this feels like to you...as if catapulted into the far future on a malfunctioning stardrive, yet having only experienced it as a matter of days.  Except for you, what would be some sort of twisted far future _coexists_ somehow with the present day.  No.  Superimposed upon it, more like.  All of this has happened with a speed that completely defies everything you would have once held up as reason.

Yet you try to think back to the time before...yes, it still exists, the memories are still with you like the dusky shadows of that dream, but separated from everything about your current reality as if by a gaping chasm miles across.  Seven days in the blink of an eye.  Seven days stretched to just shy of eternity.  Neither the full truth--and neither a lie.

A crack of light between the lift doors--in that split second you catch a glimpse of your black-clad reflection and the intangible mask slips back on.

This time you take another door near Dr. Zarander's office; this one leads to your section of the medbay from the back.

The first person to greet you is Lieutenant Thomlind, the head of the nursing staff, and a much younger man than Zarander.  He greets you with a tiny smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.  "Now that you've had the splint off for a little while...are there any concerns about the hand?"

You got the splint off of your hand yesterday and other than some stiffness from being immobilized for almost six days, no pain remains, nor even any visible sign of the damage you did yourself in the cell.  The bacta has done its miraculous work.  Still...this is small consolation for the fact that you put yourself in that state in the first place.  

You flex the fingers of your dominant hand back and forth...a gesture that, with a chill down your spine, you recognize as a mirror of Ren's from that day.  What you tell Lieutenant Thomlind is, "It'll limber up as the day goes on, but no pain.  Everything seems to be in place."

Thomlind shifts his weight from one foot to the other.  "That's good to know," he answers.  "If it gives you any trouble, don't hesitate to let me know."

"I shouldn't need to," you reply, and meet his eyes.  You allow yourself your own tiny smile...whatever you are now, you figure--you hope--Commander Ren means you to show _something_ other than complete coldness by sending you here, even if there are limits.  It _mattered_ to him for some reason, that you'd lost your chance back home to continue training.  "I can see I was in good hands."

"Ah...thanks," he answers.  This time, there seems to be at least a little something more genuine to Thomlind's expression.  

"So," he begins, "we've got about half an hour until sick call gets underway for this shift.  When that happens, it's going to get busy in here fast.  _How_ busy it's going to be--well, a lot of that depends on how long we've gone between troop landings.  Every time _that_ happens, some new bug inevitably starts making the rounds.  The _Finalizer_ 's a fairly closed environment--our fleet as a whole actually has been, until the last several years.  People brought whatever germs they had from their homeworlds with them during the exodus, but that's plenty of time for diseases to take different evolutionary tracks in our space, versus the areas where we're making our return.  So you figure about a week after any troop landing, give or take, and whatever new pathogens are cycling around the ship will have really gained some traction.  It's not even just open wounds on the battlefield you have to think about as far as bringing those things here.  Doesn't matter how well sealed those Trooper suits are--people in the LZ cough, sneeze, Troopers track stuff aboard on their boots...biology goes on.  It happens.

"It's generally not that difficult to handle," he adds, "and I expect it'll improve as we push back into the Core Regions where there's less isolation between planets.  But until then, the upper decks don't like to see the drop in efficiency ratings that comes with one of these little outbreaks.  The captain could do herself a favor by realizing that a little more generosity on sick time would actually _help_  matters instead of making it worse...but ultimately all the medbay crew can do is advise, and treat who's sent to us.  People like me aren't the ones who know what the mission requires."  Then he gives you a meaningful look.  "Actually, speaking of missions, our last landing was Dantooine.  That...may give you a useful vantage point, when it comes to recognizing any microbes that have made their way up here, and confirming the course of treatment."

"Maybe so..."  Past and future overlap once more as your old training takes over, and you elaborate.  "That said, if we end up dealing with something that's completely new to your population, worst case, the entire symptomology could change.  And on _that_ note, I'd say _I_ should take extra biosecurity precautions given...my former life.  It wouldn't do to be the carrier that touches off a new outbreak on top of whatever comes in here."

Lieutenant Thomlind regards you for a second before he speaks again.  There's something new in his eyes this time.  When he nods at you, the gesture seems...a bit more certain.  A little bit of tension recedes from his features.  "We seem to be on the same page there," he acknowledges.

You nod, internally grateful for whatever modicum of tolerance Thomlind has discovered for this situation.  "And what about the other way around?" you ask.

"I went ahead and did a full antibody titer at the same time I screened you for bacta allergy.  From what Dr. Zarander had told me, apparently Commander Ren was indicating at least the _possibility_ of some kind of long-term stay almost from the start, so I included the standard First Order immunotriggers when I gave you the analgesic shot on the first day.  You're covered against anything critical."  Good--considering you never went offworld before...this, that's one less thing to have to think about for the time being.  "Now...speaking of biosecurity...the prep area is this way, and so is equipment storage..."

Lieutenant Thomlind talks you through the typical First Order start-of-shift procedure, and also issues you your equipment.  Thankfully you recognize the general functions of most of it, although these are far more sophisticated versions than anything you've worked with in the past.  The only thing you _don't_ recognize at all is what looks to be some sort of field emitter.  "Oh...that?" Thomlind says when you ask.  "That's a wearable antisepsis field.  If you clip it to your belt, it should do the job we were discussing earlier.  You can move freely with it, interact with patients, whatever you need to, without any trouble."

So that's what it is...you've heard about that technology--never seen it, but you _do_ know there's a catch.  "Those fields are kind of indiscriminate, aren't they?  Don't they also kill gut flora and other useful microbes too, over time?"

For the first time, Thomlind smiles-- _really_ smiles, but it's not at you.  "The First Order doesn't just excel at military technology," he proudly proclaims.  "The stagnation the galaxy has accepted for so long is over.  We've refined _all_ types of tech to new heights, medical tech included.  This field emitter been tuned so precisely that it deals with exactly what it needs to--surface and aerosol contaminants--and nothing it _doesn't_ need to.  This is an example of what we're going to bring to the galaxy when it's all said and done--not just order, but a genuinely better standard of living, don't you think?"

You're pretty sure the patients the First Order introduced themselves to by _putting them into your infirmary_ and then abducting the medic would have a thing or two to say about the cheery propaganda Thomlind's spouting.  Obviously that is _not_ a response that anyone can survive aboard the _Finalizer_.  That said, this _is_ a pretty impressive piece of technology you hope the New Republic will manage to get their hands on soon, so you aim your comments accordingly.  "This thing is a major leap forward, definitely.  It's really something to think there's more where that came from."

"Oh, there is, there is," Lieutenant Thomlind promises.  "Now, that's everything you'll need.  Sick call's about to start, so best go--"  He catches himself, reconsiders how he wants to address you.  Damn, just imagine if he saw how awkward it is for _you_...  "I recommend we head over to patient intake."

"Lead the way," you offer.

One deep breath--slowly, _quietly_ , while Thomlind has his back to you.

This is it: the first serious test of the persona you wear, your first indication that this might be enough to save your life.  Whether you can do as Ren somehow expects you can...and at the same time, find some way not to betray your expectations of _yourself_  and what you believe in.  You dread that may be impossible, but you have to try.

Down one last corridor past exam rooms waiting to be filled, and...a door at the end slides open--Thomlind's through.  You follow.

Oh, my...they're already arriving.  First in line on the other end of the room looks to be a couple of ash-covered technicians judging by the jumpsuits, a young man and woman, both looking like they could hardly be twenty.  You just manage catch a fragment of their conversation as you step into the room: "...all stings like _hell_ , but just think how lucky we were...we're still here, and I'm amazed we didn't get the L.T.'s boot up our exhaust ports for this!"

Through force of habit, you're scanning for injuries, trying to piece together what happened.  A cursory glance reveals no truly critical wounds, but the ash on their faces and the series of cuts on their faces and necks hints that they must have been standing too close to _something_ when it exploded.  A closer look shows more wounds on the hands and arms, probably where their raised their hands to shield their eyes.  Possible fragments embedded, minor burns...

"Yeah, we'd be in Emergency instead.  Or out the airlock.  Could've been so much...worse..."  The woman's voice trails off.  You can still see the pain in her eyes, but something's overridden it.  She turns to face her coworker, her face out of sight now--you can barely make out the words but you think you pick out a few fragments under her breath: " _Ohhh, son of... ...sick sense of payback... ..._ notkarking funny _..._ "

" _Keep it down!_ " the young man hisses back at her.  That you can't help hearing more clearly as you and Thomlind make your approach.

Damn it.  Looks like this is going to be every bit as bad as you expected.  What was Ren _thinking_ \--careful, get your mind away from there before it accidentally transmits something.  And hope it hasn't already.

Thomlind is first to speak--thank goodness.  He introduces himself first, then you.  "She is completing an orientation to the _Finalizer_ ," he adds in explanation--quite a bit more...tactfully than he could have, considering there are whole areas of practice you know by theory rather than experience, "so we will be working together for some time."

You'd swear you could actually _see_ the color drain from the woman's face.

Lieutenant Thomlind holds out a datapad.  "I'll need a thumbprint from each of you here."  The woman gives you a sidelong glance as he steps forward towards Thomlind.  The man does his best not to look at you at all.  Thomlind surveys the datapad.  "Crewmen Artanin and Delos.  Artanin, you're going to be with Ensign Garamon."  Thomlind indicates another First Order nurse just entering the room.  "Delos--"  That's the young woman.  "Follow us."

Crewman Delos casts a frozen look at Artanin, probably struggling mightily between the fear and pain to keep it from looking too much like _save me!_   Then she just offers a muted nod and follows without comment.  Thomlind can't be blind to this--he _has_ to notice the reaction you're getting; you'd pretty much have to be unconscious not to.  

Sure enough, when you get back to the exam room, the First Order lieutenant looks to you.  It seems like he's expecting you to speak.  "Can you recall exactly how long ago this happened?" you ask Delos.

First she winces in pain from her wounds as she sits down on the edge of the exam table.  Then she just stares at you for a second before she finally answers.  "Half an hour--an hour...I don't really _know_..."

Thomlind this time: "What exactly happened?"

"It was just...something blew up.  Sir."  That's definitely not enough information.  Oh, dear, but she looks _terrified_ to admit to whatever it was.  A trap.  An interrogation.  That's what she _has_ to be seeing this as the prelude to, with...one of Kylo Ren's people here.  If it weren't for all you've sensed--you'd be wondering the same of your own fate.  You still don't understand it all.  Much less what you _saw_ last night.  The forest.  The river.  That look of utter desolation.  If you hadn't seen and felt what you had, you might think _you_ were being set up by some 'sick sense of payback.'  Yet you feel in some inexplicable way that _isn't_ it.  

Think.  _Try_ to find some way to get the same kind of idea across to Delos even though you can't change what's been done, and you definitely can't explain it.  Whatever information ends up coming out about the mishap, or whatever else that caused this, she seems to fear what you'll do with it; she and Artanin feared their own supervisor enough as it was.  Maybe try changing the focus a bit.  Take it off of her, and whatever her actions were.  You clarify, "We need to have an idea what type of materials were involved in the explosion so we know what kind of shrapnel we're looking for, or what chemicals might be involved in that burn."

"An antigrav repulsor," she admits.  With that, the rest of the story spills out.  Nothing left to lose, you guess.  "It fell out of calibration, started oscillating...we'd just detached it for repairs and thought we had it discharged, but turns out the thing still had _plenty_ of juice in it.  Enough for a runaway reaction.  We didn't even have time to hit the deck before it blew."

Ahh... _there_ you go.  You offer a nod of acknowledgment and thanks; that's just what you needed.  You may not have spent a lot of time working with repulsors--but it tells Thomlind what _he_ needs to know, and he calibrates his scanner where you can see the screen.  "Plasteel casing--that's going to be most of the shrapnel...we need to watch out for the materials that were in the fuel cell and the field generator itself.  If any of that's contaminated the wounds, it's got to come out to make sure the bacta can work."  Looking to Delos, he says, "This may take some time...we can give you something for the pain.  Would you like that?"

"Please," Delos replies with a vigorous nod, her eyes wide with worry...from just her wounds, or from fear of what _you_ will do?  

Thomlind prepares an injection--the wounds are spread over too much surface area for local anesthetic.  "This won't help with _all_ of it," he warns, "but it should make the process a lot more bearable.  Please don't hesitate to let us know if it still gets to be too much."

"Thanks," she mutters as Thomlind injects her.

Then the lieutenant hands you the microforceps and antiseptic...it's up to you.  It doesn't matter that you've done tasks like this many times in the past...even the night of the raid.  The night Kylo Ren took you.  Even so you can't help thinking to yourself, _Please don't let me screw this up._

"Lean back," you suggest as the painkiller takes effect, motioning for Delos to lay on her back on the exam table, which you've set to let her take a reclining position.  "We'll start with your hand...I'm going to be disinfecting the wounds and removing the shrapnel, so you may still feel some stinging and tugging.  I'm going to set the forceps near that cut--"  You point to an obvious gash across her left palm, and lower your voice a bit.  "I'll need you to tell me how that feels.  And if we need to increase the dosage...tell me."

You raise the microforceps--she flinches.  There's _something_ about that image that sets her off, and damn it, you can't tell her not to worry, that you're not like that, that you merely _look_ like one of Ren's terrors and you have never done the things she has to believe you could.   _How_ do you communicate that--

With a shock, you realize you've _seen_  the way.  And it was you on the other side, terrified, wracked with pain, Ren told you to approach and let him inspect the damage you'd done yourself--and your fears never materialized the way you dreaded.  Yes, your mind is bridged with Ren's...but that wasn't the _only_ way you knew.

It's inconceivable.  Absurd almost to the point of laughter.  But what you have to do...is the same as Kylo Ren did for you.

You slip your other hand gently under hers.  Be patient, watch Delos and respond where you can to any signs of discomfort she may _still_ never directly admit no matter what you say or do.  Don't move quicker than you have to, and when you do, do only what you truly must and no more: let your motions and your touch speak for you where words cannot.

You make contact.  Delos tenses--but replies, "I...think I'll manage."

"All right..."  You try to catch her gaze.  "If that changes, do speak up."

The young woman nods, leaning back and closing her eyes as you begin the process of cleaning out each wound.

Each move feels to you as though the air itself has thickened around you, fighting to contain you within its shell.  It's not the antiseptic field--Thomlind was as good as his word on that.  And it isn't just the vestments of Ren's organization that you wear--but that sense within, this thing that ebbs and flows and snarls like the tide, that just _isn't_ the Dantooinian medic from before the raid...and not just because of the existence of the waves, but their impact upon the rocks.  

Yet still you strive, that something, however small, might pierce through nonetheless.  Even here.  Even with _them_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SCI/TECH NOTES (skip if bored but I put it here because I can ;) ): Yes, I can technically get away with what I want in a dream sequence, but when I found that in the Legends material that Dantooine had two moons, and I had an image I very much wanted to run with, I looked up whether or not it was actually possible and ran into a very neat explanation on [LiveJournal](http://little-details.livejournal.com/3444120.html) of all places. The orbital mechanics you're seeing in that scene are what we'd call in OUR universe a Trojan moon (not using that term in story because that's Earth mythology), similar to what you see with some of Saturn's moons, and in that case the two moons' phases would in fact be different from each other. The LJ states the variance between the two satellites' phases would be approximately 1/6, and I may have fudged that a bit to get the exact effect I was after, but apparently it's not that far off from reality...
> 
> If you play or know about Mass Effect, you probably recognize Lieutenant Thomlind's description of the germ problem as a far, far milder version of what the quarians ended up dealing with when the geth forced them off of Rannoch. While the human immune system is a heck of a lot stronger than the quarian one, the fact remains that being completely out of contact with the outside galaxy means that there is going to be an issue of at least some sort with contagious disease, even if minor. Thirty years (or less, depending on exactly when the First Order retreated to the Unknown Regions) is very unlikely to produce anything of the magnitude of, say, the Columbian Exchange, but the slim possibility the Reader mentions is what would possibly happen if they encountered something to which the First Order has practically no inherent resistance. The result in cases like that tends to be a far more aggressive and deadly form of the disease than what you would see in a population where that disease is endemic. This isn't tremendously likely since I assume a fair amount of genetic diversity among the First Order (they probably originated from many human worlds) but any good emergency planner is going to consider even such unlikely scenarios.
> 
> Thomlind considered that our Reader, especially as someone who has never been off of the fairly isolated world of Dantooine, would face a problem with the same kinds of susceptibilities if something wasn't done. The "immunotriggers" he's describing are something I'm not quite sure what they are, but one possibility I'm picturing is [an extension of this sort of technology](http://www.historyofvaccines.org/content/articles/future-immunization) that's being kicked around IRL, where the body is essentially ordered to produce the right antibodies without having to come into contact with a live or attenuated version of the disease. This avoids the problem of having to go through a shot regimen that takes months to complete and may still result in mild disease symptoms (depending on the person's sensitivity to the vaccine). A programmed virus may be one way to convey this immunity. It is also possible in Star Wars (though canon doesn't tell us) that nanodroids could be used for that purpose as well. Essentially, whatever's being used here, I envision it as telling her immune system to begin producing the antibodies that would be normal for someone who grew up in the First Order, in addition to what she has from her own world. This does NOT account for every little cold or flu. Not only do certain diseases mutate way too fast to produce lifelong vaccination, there is evidence coming out now that leaving the immune system with too little to do causes it to get up to some very unpleasant things (allergies and autoimmune disease). So our Reader could get a "space cold," easily, but will not have to worry about more dangerous diseases.
> 
> Songs:
> 
> Pink Floyd: "[A New Machine, Part 1/Terminal Frost/A New Machine, Part 2](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lI5BrZhKNUM)" (I also have a "hidden track" I use as the middle piece instead depending on whose perspective I'm approaching the shared dream from, but I can't share it because it would give far too much away. Either way I LOVE "A New Machine" because of the superposition of the false mechanized voice on the real voice.)
> 
> Thrice: "[Doublespeak](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hDHkAoNqpLY)" (can't get any better than this for Lt. Thomlind...)


	7. Chapter 7

**Aboard the First Order Star Destroyer _Finalizer  
_ Three weeks after the Raid on Dantooine**

****Exhausted.  Drained.  Worn down.

You sip slowly at a cup of herbal tea.  You grew bold enough to send for it last week from the quartermaster along with a few other varieties you cared about less...best to cover your main objective.  To your surprise--though why  _should_  you have been surprised; they know who you answer to--they delivered.  

Sleep doesn't come easy.  This tea won't do that much for it, but what makes you toss and turn at night, or wake into the middle of--let's be honest, a panic attack...it won't be going away.  Ever.  The last thing you need on top of everything else is the scrutiny--or just as bad, the dependency--from relying on something from the infirmary.  And to a futile end, no less.  So you tough it out with the tea, and strict routine.  Sometimes it works...sometimes it very much  _doesn't_.  

A few minutes remain before the time you've decided is lights-out on yet another soul-wearying day.  You lay reclined on your bed with the covers pulled up to your chest.  Your datapad rests against your legs in powersave mode.  You were reading  _something_ , some medical research study that you only ever managed to pay half a mind to because at least it beat the other option, an endless spew of propaganda.  Except you'd found yourself wondering just how sound the research really was, if the trial designs and the statistical modeling were really telling the truth or if they too were propaganda, rigged for a foregone conclusion.  Between intervals of staring off into space and the thought of dealing with a potential pile of bantha fodder when you were supposed to be winding down for the night _..._ you'd just muttered a quiet  _screw it_ , and given up.  
**  
** It wasn't as if you never had days before all this--before the raid, before  _Ren_ \--when you'd had to put on a brave front and keep putting one foot in front of the other.  How could you ever forget those hollow months after the man who was  _supposed_ to train you died far too soon, leaving you alone and burdened with grief, enormous responsibility, and unfinished lessons?  Or the endless delay, delay, delay from the health ministry in New Garang who kept giving you excuse after excuse as to why no one could be sent now to help you, until you'd finally realized no help would ever come?  

You'd toughed it out through that murky year--your patients didn't need the cloud hovering over you, so you held it in, in front of them, but at least what you allowed them to see was  _something_ real, some part of your true self even if it wasn't the whole thing.  And you'd had the love of family to go home to, the care of friends, the breeze across the rolling hills...damn it, in the second year you'd finally felt like you had put things back together, not the same way as the past, but things had been looking up.  You'd started self-study, at least with what you felt confident you could master safely.  And you were feeling like yourself again.  

Then Ren invaded.  And you crashed back down to nothing--sometimes even worse.  It's not  _just_ about being trapped far from home with no other real option but to serve the Knights of Ren.  Or even  _just_ about what's happened to you beneath the surface.  It's about the complete separation from anyone who loves you.  Or who would even care if you died...well...much as you hate to admit it, you'd better take back that last part.  There is one man who'd at least give a damn about  _that_.

Dr. Zarander...Lieutenant Thomlind...a few of the others...they speak to you professionally now that they seem to have at least figured out Ren was telling the truth and you actually have knowledge of medicine.  Other than that--as far as any  _normal_  conversation, you're out of luck.  Most still keep their distance; if you eat in the medbay staff cafeteria, you end up with a table to yourself.  True, making small talk would be its own special kind of hell, but it might make you feel a bit human.

And then there's Kylo Ren.  As far as physical presence goes, he's been keeping himself scarce.  Every few days, though, his voiceless speech resonates through your head, seeking an update, checking for any observations of note.  And in his abrupt, veiled way...checking in on  _you_.

You almost wish you'd hear a word from him tonight.  Yes, it's his fault you're stuck on a First Order Star Destroyer.  Yes, the very act of communicating mind-to-mind is a reminder of what he's done to you.  You can't change that, or any of the other things he's done, or been a party to.  Still...it's some sort of contact, one where certain truths need not be suppressed.

You still your mind for a moment...it's there, the tempestuous presence in the silence, though a bit less so than it was in the day.  He sends nothing, though.  So you take your last sip of tea, then rise for a few brief minutes and take care of the last few tasks to end this day.

Then--time for bed.  First you cut the reading light; the fixture retracts into the wall, hiding from sight with a click.  Then the recessed overhead lighting.  Last you switch off the time display: best to  _never_ see it when you're trying to rest, and to assume you still have ample time if sleep is long in coming, or you wake in the dead of the night.  It's dark now save for two faint emergency lights at the door of your quarters.  Those you evade by pulling the covers over your head.

By the time you finally drift off, you can no longer recognize if sleep comes at the first or at the second stillness.

 

 **The next day, just before mid-shift  
**   
Your patient leaves the exam room, probably as relieved to be out of there as you are to have a second to catch your breath.  That said, this one did, albeit nervously, take the time to let you know what you gave him to make the asthma attack subside was working well.  That wasn't all.  There's also the note you sent to his datapad, signed by both Dr. Zarander and yourself, stating which substances he should never again be made to handle without a respirator.  

He didn't say it, but when he noticed your name below Zarander's, he gave a little nod of...what?  Satisfaction?  Vindication?  There's no title next to your name.  But in these two weeks here on staff, there's been plenty of time for ship's scuttlebutt to spread the word of your presence to the well over eighty thousand people aboard the  _Finalizer_.  You get this feeling the note you just signed is about to end an ongoing battle this young ensign has been having with an inconsiderate superior.

He's First Order.  Whatever his work is, it's dangerous to the Republic in at least  _some_  measure.  Still, Ren was right about the oath you swore: when someone enters the medbay, whatever else they are stops and what they must be is a patient.  Some part of you still manages to feel a brief moment of pleasure at the idea that maybe this young man will suffer fewer of these attacks after this.

You're not just thankful that you managed this once to make some sort of connection with a patient, even if very subdued, but also that the interaction was _ordinary_.  In a few cases over the last two weeks, you've had this...bad feeling.  The first time it happened, you'd wondered if it was just the emotional bleedover from Kylo Ren putting you on edge, but then it happened a second time, with someone else.  It's all very subtle, tiny details that don't quite add up: a patient that seemed  _too_  much the epitome of good health, one or two that showed no sign whatsoever of the typical reactions to finding out they'd be seen by someone affiliated with the Knights of Ren...even one case of an 'accident' that looked a little bit too close to intentionally self-inflicted.  It's not like you can  _sense_  anything as you can with Ren.  But it didn't sound right to  _him_  either, when you'd described it.

You step out of the exam room and run it through an auto-sterilize cycle.  Once the light turns green and you verify the process is complete, you head back towards the patient intake area.  Those odd encounters--they make you wonder if--

Oh, no.  Oh,  _no_.  You freeze.  You  _know_ the strident voice you're hearing through the door, questioning--almost  _interrogating_ Dr. Zarander.  The hair on the back of your neck stands on end.  You've done your best to avoid the First Order's propaganda, but even that hideous broadcast you heard on the Dantooine news a few months ago would've been enough for you to recognize it.

You don't like what you have to do.  You've never been the one to make the first move...goodness only knows what kind of reaction you'll get.  But at the same time...the idea of going out there  _without_...it twists an even worse knot into your stomach.  You aim your mind towards the otherness that is always with you--the will to speak, minus its physical expression...

_Commander Ren!_

Startled.  But the sensation isn't your own.  The answer--terse, like sparks leaping forth from a bonfire you've thrown new kindling upon.   _What is it?_

 _General Hux--he's here!_ You're leaned up against the wall, begging with the universe that no one triggers the door sensor, no one comes down the hall and sees you...and that those other thoughts, the ones you don't mean for Ren, don't broadcast anyway.

You nearly sway.  For a split second--a sense of momentum...a breakneck pace, just like when he towed you down the corridor.  And after that, you suddenly just  _know_  he's alone now.  He sends:  _You have my_ full _attention._   A restless pause.   _It was going to happen sooner or later.  Go.  What you hear, I will hear._   You should be terrified of that.  But somehow, even as a faint rushing sound heralds some sort of cross-signal running through your auditory cortex, that manages  _not_  to be the foremost of your fears.

You force yourself not to nod as you reply to him, as has become your habit when alone.  Unfortunately, he's right: hiding from this is probably just delaying the inevitable.   _All right.  I'm going._

Breathe.  Just breathe.  Stand straight--eyes ahead, not on the floor--march out there like you mean it.  Out the door, no hesitation--

"--call her right away, sir--"  Dr. Zarander looks over at the  _swish_  of the automatic door.  "Ah, yes, excellent timing...here she is."  The older man snaps to attention, his features growing hard and inscrutable as he introduces you by name...as if the man towering over him needs a name to know which one here isn't like the others.  Then Zarander says, "It is my honor to introduce my commanding officer, General Hux."

The Butcher of the Hosnian System.  This tall, pale, redheaded young man is the one who pulled the trigger without even an ounce of pity or regret--you can't sense it, of course, but somehow...there's an impression that here stands before you a man without a soul.  Even Ren isn't completely--what, you don't know, but General Hux is another beast altogether, cold and calculating, to judge by the scrutinizing, almost scientific gaze he subjects you to.

Your heart pounds--fear, yes, but you can feel something else igniting within you, too.  You have to control it--you  _hope_ you can control it--but you'll take your chances with the fire.  Better now to burn than to freeze.  You meet Hux's eyes.  Your features feel like stone even as your nerves almost seem to hum.  Zarander's watching too...you wonder for an instant what  _he_  sees.  "General," you acknowledge with a nod--that's all you'll give Hux.  On that, your core self and the part that serves the Knights of Ren are of one accord.

"So you're our new guest," Hux says, looking down his nose at you as if looking at a slide under a microscanner.   _You expected taller?_ you catch yourself thinking.

"I am."

"Very irregular," he declares.  Then he turns to Dr. Zarander.  "I'll be using your office, of course."

Zarander stiffens slightly.  "Might I be present for this, sir?"  Well.  You didn't see  _that_ coming.

Hux coolly regards Zarander and replies in unctuous tones, "No, you may not."

In that moment it's not hard to understand the  _fear_ you witnessed in your last patient, that had less to do with a woman in Knight's vestments and more to do with the next rank up.  No doubt anymore, that started at the top and rolled downhill.

"Now..."  Hux addresses you again.  "I should like to get acquainted."

He wouldn't...he wouldn't torture you right under Dr. Zarander's nose--would he?   _There is nothing he can do that I won't know about immediately._ It's Kylo Ren's voice--ominous, steady...and a reminder that you won't have to face the general alone.  Not exactly.   _Don't answer that!_  he warns.

"Well?" Hux prods, analyzing your countenance.  What happened, did your eyes unfocus as you listened to Ren's thought?  Careful, you warn yourself.  You can't let that happen again.  "Shall we get on with it?"  His acerbic tone ensures you couldn't possibly mistake it for any form of human decency.

"Very well," you reply, and turn towards Dr. Zarander's office, not waiting for General Hux to make the first move.  It's not just the act you maintain, the refusal to grant Hux any sense that  _he_  might be your superior officer.  You almost...you  _need_  to move, to bleed the energy building up in you down to a manageable level.  You hear the clip of his boots behind yours--then he lengthens his stride, pulling past you and sliding into Dr. Zarander's office ahead of you.

General Hux immediately makes for Zarander's leather chair and helps himself to it, propping his elbows on the desk, leaning forward with fingers interlaced as if this place belonged to him.  Technically it does, but seeing the Butcher's smugness on display, mere feet from you...it turns your stomach.  Now he makes a sweeping gesture at the guest chair in front of the desk.  " _Do_ be seated."

You don't want to sit.  You want to stand.  To  _pace_.  But...you had probably better sit.  It keeps you that little bit further away from Hux.

"So," Hux begins, his tone stripped of emotion, as if reading from a personnel file.  "A medic from a backwater hamlet on Dantooine.  Brought in for further questioning following a field interrogation, on suspicion of possessing intelligence on a Resistance asset--intelligence found to exist but not to be of actionable quantity.  Submitted to reeducation procedures following an episode of disorderly conduct, turned in this process to the cause of the First Order, via an...allegiance to the Knights of Ren."  You offer no comment on this.

At last he cuts to the chase.  "I am here because I would like you to explain something to me.  I know the quality of our instruction, but your case...it stands apart.  Tell me, how is it that one like you--not exactly fitting the...standard profile for his organization--somehow won the favor of Kylo Ren sufficiently that he would override standard First Order protocol and personally take charge over your case?  From where I'm sitting, I have not been able to determine why he brought you into  _his_ service instead of submitting you to standard work detail assignment."

You remember what you told Dr. Zarander.  And there's something else Ren said the night of your release...  "I saw my commander's power on Dantooine."  Hux sneers slightly at that reminder that he doesn't control you.  "I was  _convinced_ of what he could do...I saw him subvert machines--I saw how human strength fails against someone wielding the Force.  That's not something I could ever forget.  Or try to deny after I saw it with my own eyes."  Like Hux, according to Ren, tries to do.  Hux glares coldly at that.  "That is at the core of it for me, and he saw that.  As for the rest--the timing and so on...you would have to speak with Commander Ren."

Hux narrows his eyes at you and leans back in Zarander's chair.  His features are blank again, save for that.  "Kylo Ren has never selected anyone of your skill set for his personal service, until now.  The rest are warriors.  Some are...mystics.  You, as far as I can tell, are neither, minus your recent ideological inclinations.  What is his  _purpose_ in that?"

Obviously  _you_ don't know either.  And Ren is showing the good sense this time not to distract your focus even as the faint background hiss in your ears tells you he's still listening through you.  "He's taking it all one step at a time," you reply truthfully.  "I have my instructions to study here.  I'm sure Commander Ren will let me know more when the time is right."

"Does that not... _bother_  you to be so far out of the loop?" the general prods.

You pretend to be taking it all in blind acceptance, as a zealous new convert would.  "I suspect it may be a bit of a lesson in patience."

Hux smirks mirthlessly at that.  "'Patience.'  A fine instructor you have for  _that_..."

You glare silently back at him.  It isn't hard to do--one thought of the Hosnian system is all it takes.

Hux shakes his head in annoyance.  "What in all the stars of the galaxy is Kylo Ren  _doing_  with you?" he asks again.  There's an ugly undertone you don't like the sound of.

You opt for a literal response--but you're starting to wonder exactly what he's insinuating.  You tell the general, "Right now I'm coming up to speed on the new technology and treatments the First Order has developed.  There seem to have been some significant advancements."

"And all of it easily verifiable by the appropriate _scientific_ methods," Hux retorts in what seems like a shot at Ren by proxy.  Then Hux corners you.  "But that's not what I meant at all.  I find myself wondering if perhaps there has been  _another_ sort of exchange of 'services,' either mutual or otherwise."

Your fingers claw into the armrests, knuckles white in a death grip.  The ire rises up in your chest, threatens to burst forth and launch right at Hux.  And it's not just you--damn it, it's flooding in from without as well.  You fight not to shout...not to jump out of your chair, not to--to...focus!  You  _have_ to focus.  You manage to keep your seat though every nerve in your body is screaming.  You hear your voice rising just short of a shout as you fire back at Hux.  "I'm doing no such thing!  I'll thank you not to suggest it again, General, not about me-- _or my commander!_ "

"Watch yourself!" Hux warns.  

You _watch the attacks on people's honor!_ you silently retort.  You just manage to bite your tongue, but you're pretty sure you just broadcast it so Ren could hear, if his intense focus on you doesn't mean he's already hearing all of your thoughts.

You've  _got_ to get control.  You've  _got_ to calm down, you tell yourself.  You make no apologies, but Hux can surely see you're regaining some modicum of restraint over this still-foreign, volatile temper.

"What a vile disposition," he mumbles as if to himself.  But it's all theater, you're sure.

 _Happens when you accuse someone of sleeping their way out of a jam,_ you think, no longer caring that Ren can hear it.  You actually...don't mind that right now.  _And 'vile disposition'?  Ever actually_ watch  _one of your own propaganda holos?_

"Is that included in the Knights' recruiting manual, or is it  _issued_ to you as part of the standard equipment?"

_Yeah, something like that!_

__What you say out loud, now that you have some control over your voice, is, "General, look...I don't know everything about how Commander Ren recruits.  But what you just suggested is definitely _not_ a part of it.  I suggest we leave it at that.  I'll be sure to let my commander know you had questions...it's possible he might tell you something more than he shares with someone in my position."

"Right, then," Hux replies with a caustic twist that suggests he thinks no such thing will happen.  He stands.  You don't wait for an invitation; so do you.  "We're finished here.  But I want you to remember something.  Whatever it is you have going for you--it has limits.  And whatever your mission is, if it  _ever_ turns against my personnel or my operations, if it ever goes against the will of the Supreme Leader, I will make  _sure_ that no warrior or mystic, not even Kylo Ren himself, can protect you."

You feel a chill down your spine.  You're technically  _already_ in defiance of Hux right this second, as Ren listens through your ears.  Hux, for his part, isn't budging until you give him some sort of response.  You wonder if the Butcher enjoys this.  "I'll pass that along," you say, willing your voice not to shake.

"See that you do."  With that, Hux turns smartly on his heel and leaves Dr. Zarander's office.  You follow behind, grateful the instant you clear the threshold into the corridor.  The young general spots Dr. Zarander in the hall, but bypasses him with barely even a sidelong glance in his direction as he marches on by.

As for you, you stop silently by the doctor, and the two of you watch as Hux makes his exit.  The door slides shut behind the jackbooted general.  And with that...it suddenly becomes that much harder to hold back the chaotic storm of emotions running through you.  Probably has something to do with the fact that Zarander hasn't resorted to death threats to deal with his resident 'Knight' problem.

One that he's watching very, very carefully right now.  You're doing your damnedest but...the tension has to be showing.  You turn to Zarander--you know what you have to do, what you promised him, and yourself.  You're in no state to deal with patients...or just about anyone, save for one.  "Doctor, I...it would be best for me to exchange break periods with someone."

Zarander regards you warily.  This is his first time to see for himself the side of you he's been dreading all this time.  But there's something else to his expression too.  Something softens just slightly around his eyes.  "Go on...I'll arrange it."

"Is there somewhere I can go?" you ask.

Zarander points down the corridor.  "There's an empty office at the end of the hall on the left.  You won't be disturbed there...you'll have my discretion."

You're ready to leave--but you pause, even as badly as you want to retreat.  Even with all the turmoil inside, you just can't leave things with Dr. Zarander the way Hux left them.  "I appreciate that."

Dr. Zarander doesn't say anything, or smile in return...you can't blame him after all that's just transpired and _why_...but he does offer you a nod of acknowledgment before the two of you go your separate ways.  

Down the hall...there you find the office Zarander promised.  It's small, mostly unfurnished save for a chair and a desk with a built-in comm unit, but at least when you lock the door, you have the place completely to yourself.  You're shaking all over now--you want to scream, cry, collapse, all of it at once.  You can still feel it: the near-feral rage at Hux...the terror from yet another threat to guard against...and sorrow, for the upheaval within.  It's so hard to recognize yourself sometimes in this state, even though you know it  _is_ still you underneath...

It's all so very overwhelming.  You cut the lights off, plunging yourself into near complete darkness save for a few illuminated buttons on the comm unit and the door panel.  Then you sink to your knees on the floor and close your eyes.  Almost like hooding a bat-falcon, the darkness enfolds you, begins to drain some of the wild, crackling energy from your nerves.  You're not feeling as overloaded--it's getting easier to breathe slow and steady, to think straight.

Now...it's time to do once again what has to be done.  You settle against the wall, pulling your knees to your chest, almost childlike despite your vestments.  Once more you find the cord that binds your minds, this time allowing yourself a moment to take in the mercurial presence on the other end.  Good--he seems a bit more settled as well.   _Commander?_ you send.

 _I'm here_ , replies Kylo Ren.

 _That...didn't go very well_ , you admit, and hope you won't face some sort of punishment for that awful encounter.

But Ren doesn't do that.   _It could have been worse._ __

 _I wanted to jump across the table at him_ , you find yourself admitting before you have time to think about it.   _I just...I don't know_ what _I wanted._

 _We both know._   

His tone--it sounds so cold at first, and the words themselves are enough to make you shiver, especially since you know...it was true.  You hate how that makes you feel.  But here in the dark, in the silence, where there's so little to disrupt your concentration, you feel something else beneath the terse, frigid declaration.  Something melancholy and contemplative as he returns the same steady, discerning focus.  And he thinks:  _I can feel that was not easy for you_.

With no one to see inside the locked, dark office, you shake your head.  _No.  It's not._ You pause, allowing that to sink in for a moment before you continue.  _It was especially hard after what he said--_

 __You don't need to specify what.  Kylo Ren knows immediately. _Hux_ would _think to say a thing like that!_ he silently snarls, contempt radiating forth.  _I don't know why_ anything _that falls out of that mind should surprise me anymore!_ _If he's deluded enough to think he didn't have it coming to him, if he thinks he's going to come crying to me about it, you can rest assured I_ will _set him straight._ As his full attention turns back to you, the flash of outrage subsides.  The voice in your mind grows a bit softer.  _In the face of what he did...you don't need to make excuses for yourself to me.  And...y_ _ou did better than you think you did._

 __It's hard to know how to answer that.  But...you guess you ought to be grateful that whatever else he is, Commander Ren backs his own people in a fight. _Thanks._  
_  
_ He doesn't acknowledge it directly.  But just as you felt once before, there's a flicker of something that's neither anger, nor pain, nor fear.  It elicits a fleeting shadow of a smile from you.  And this time, you're not so sure it's just an accidental slip of the mind.

Ren pushes the moment aside.   _I will want you to make that call you promised_ , he instructs you.   _I heard everything that happened but I want you to tell me aloud, so it's there if for some reason Hux checks the comm logs.  And be_ _sure to include that little_ accusation _of his.  I_ want _that in case he comes parading in and preening with one of those high-handed little sermons of his!_

 _You've got it_ , you enthusiastically reply.  You know you shouldn't care that much--shouldn't be eager to comply with anything Kylo Ren asks of you.  Oh, but it is so incredibly satisfying to picture General Hux getting a dose of his own medicine...

Then something else occurs to you.  Ren mentioned the idea of Hux spying...oh, dear.  He catches your unease before you can even give full shape to the thought.  _What is it?_ he probes.  
_  
I'm...not really sure...I'm just going to try to think through it_ , _if you'd bear with me_ , you send, your lip curling up into an ironic smile for an instant at that description.  _We know Hux is spying--I mean, those strange visitors I got sure makes it seem like he was trying even before he showed up in person.  And then all the questions he asked, trying to get me to tell him things I don't know the answers to...he's_ very _interested in why I'm here.  And you think he might spy on that comm call whenever I make it.  What if--no...that's not a 'what-if'...there_ had _to have been cameras in that detention cell...oh, my goodness.  If he saw_ that _...I actually said it.  That you're still in my mind.  And then--that's the first time we ever communicated like this.  The way that must look from the outside--he'd have everything he needed to put the pieces together!_

And if Hux found out...well, you can bet he'd use it as an excuse to have you killed.  Or even to put Kylo Ren himself to death.  In fact, it probably wouldn't even matter whose execution was ordered--the end result might well still be both of you dead at a single stroke.  Even as bad as things are for you...you just don't want it to end that way.

 _Not a bad question_ , Ren acknowledges.   _But I took care of that.  There are certain things that simply_ are not _his business.  There is no recording; there never was.  I disabled the monitors before I went in there.  All of them.  I always do, and it burns that pompous little womp rat to no end--Hux always thinks he'll sneak one by me someday, but I can trace anything he installs and destroy it from the inside out.  I was especially thorough that time._

Like he did to the locking mechanism of the infirmary door back home.  Yes--if that was any indication, he very well could do that kind of precision tracing and ruin any sort of equipment he wanted with mind and Force.  

That helps...somewhat, but that still doesn't erase Hux's final threat.  The one he seemed to think he could carry out regardless of Kylo Ren's extraordinary abilities.   _You don't think he'd still try to go after me, do you?_  
  
_He wouldn't be so brazen--Supreme Leader wouldn't stand for it.  He wouldn't allow Hux to turn on any of my people, however they happen to be serving--_  
  
It _slams_  into you with gut-wrenching force--enough that it would have keeled you over if you'd been standing.  As it is you pull your arms tight to your chest.  It feels like one of those dreadful nightmares, except you're wide awake as the skin-prickling, breath-stealing, nauseating wave of _horror_ rolls over you.  A fragmented thought ricochets in your head--one you feel somehow wasn't meant for you, but you hear it nonetheless: ... _not this time--will not let it happen_ twice... _!_   Terror--anguish--pain--

It resolves again into a coherent, transmitted thought.  As it releases you, you hear: _You have no idea how to defend yourself...!_

Your nerves are too shot to consider your words before you send them.   _If_   _I did, I would've done a lot better than I did on Dantooine!_  
  
_And you would be dead_.  A harsh statement of fact, and one that his next declaration kills any will to snap back upon.   _But now--now, you have to learn.  Quickly!_

 _I thought you said I'm not a fighter--_  
  
_I KNOW what I SAID!_   You wince.  An indrawn hiss of pain passes your lips as you press a hand to your temple.

You keep your mind's voice low, as if a near whisper, leery of provoking another painful outcry.  _Why?  What is it you--_ Don't ask him what he's _afraid_ of, even though you know beyond the shadow of a doubt that whatever it is, it frightens him.   _What do you think is going to happen?  What do I do?_  
  
_I'm...not sure.  There are many forms it could take.  I don't know if--or which.  And if I'm right that it will come, in_ any _form--I_ cannot-- _I_ must not  _tell you.  But if..._ something _is going to happen, we may not have much time.  Not_ enough _time, anyway.  We have to start right away.  Today, after your shift--I'll come to you._

You thought facing down General Hux was bad.  But now--what could be so much worse, such that it strikes horror even into the heart of one such as Kylo Ren?  And that somehow you might be expected...without the Force, without any great strength or innate skill, or even any past desire...to _fight_?

Ren leaves you almost no time to process.  _No more discussion of that now.  I want you to go ahead and make that comm call.  It would seem odd if you waited much longer._

You draw in a deep, shuddering breath, stand up, and turn on the light.  You have no true mask--you can't let _too_ much of your consternation show.  You dust off your dress and leggings, rearrange your hair, _try_ not to look like you're on the edge of a heart attack.  You sit down, switch on the comm unit, press your thumb to the scanner...and there's the comm code for Kylo Ren preset at the top of your quick directory, impossible to miss.

In the instant before you tap the last command, all you can think, all you can feel is this: the only remaining constant is that everything falls apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:  
> I think by now it's pretty clear I'm no Reylo or Kylux shipper... ;-) Also, I am curious to know what you guys think the threat is that scares Kylo Ren so? I can't confirm or deny before I post the next chapter, but I do still love feedback...
> 
> Songs:  
> Coldplay--"[Spies](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ivkcAH8_6KE)"  
> Laibach/Juno Reactor--"[B Mashina (Remix by mahreeooce on YouTube)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=USQMeVt9Tzw)" (considering the movie this comes from, can you think of anything more perfect for General Hux in particular and the First Order in general?)


	8. Chapter 8

**Living Quarters M-1390  
Evening**

****You sit in silence at the fold-out desk in your quarters in front of a powered-off computer monitor, stirring at a bowl of thick Tatooinian podpopper soup with a piece of flatbread and waiting for it to cool.  It's from the Outer Rim at least...but not _too_ close to anything from your own homeworld.  Which would have been too much to bear even if there _had_ been anything from tiny Dantooine on the menu.

If there's one thing to be grateful for tonight--and it feels like about the _only_ thing right now--it's that you get any chance to eat without the stares of others upon you _._ Community.  Togetherness.  You hear these words bandied about constantly at every level of the First Order, even down to and including the suspicion cast towards those who choose too often to dine alone in their quarters rather than in a cafeteria.  _You_ , however...are something to do with the Knights of Ren.  You stand on the outside, and the crew of the _Finalizer_ seems content to leave you there.  Tonight, you need what isolation you can get.

Steam rises from the soup and you stare through it, remembering that surreal comm call from earlier today.  True, the First Order holocoms are like nothing you ever saw, or even _heard_ of on Dantooine--the image far more lifelike, more substantial and less distorted than anything you could have ever imagined.  And you actually spoke with your voice--the first time you've said a word aloud to Kylo Ren for almost two weeks.  To see the robed figure staring at you through the visor of his mask--to hear the mechanized version of his voice in reply--it should have seemed more _real_ than it did.  Everything you would once have called reason insists on that.  But now...

Images... _don't feel_.  

Your eyes and ears were telling you one thing.  But everything within you insisted that _distance_ was the real illusion.  It was hard not to let your eyes unfocus like they did that one moment in front of General Hux.  Hard to make yourself address the _image_ of Kylo Ren instead of the constant inward presence the conversation pulled to the forefront of your awareness.

The two of you created your partial truth for General Hux to find if he decides to go digging through the _Finalizer_ comm records, and then...that was it.  You'd had to bolt down a nutrient bar--not the greatest thing in the world but thankfully still parsecs better than those hideous green prison rations--and go back to work, and do your best to pretend in front of your patients and the medbay staff that everything was back to what passed as normal.

You force yourself now to keep eating.  You can't afford to skip a meal, no matter how your stomach churns from the confluence of fears.  You spend most of the day on your feet--the stress itself depletes your energy--and now, Ren expects you to start some kind of _combat_ training.  Tonight.  Passing out would be _such_ a great way to get started.

What the hell is he planning?  And why must he veil his reasons in such secrecy?  A threat.  It felt like a threat, against him.  Against you.  Fight-or-flight, the most primitive reflex.  If not for that--if not for _experiencing_ the panic-stricken moment of epiphany--you would have believed _he_  was plotting some sort of cruel trap for you.  It isn't as if it would be out of character with everything you heard about him.  With the fact the Stormtroopers would casually ask him if they ought to slaughter an infirmary full of patients...even refused, the question itself is damning.  With the fear his name inspires, even when merely associated with someone else.

With the fact that he would think nothing of tearing through your mind.

You wouldn't be here...you wouldn't be facing down whatever it is, if it weren't for that damned interrogation.  But this consequence...no, Ren didn't foresee whatever it is, when he first laid his plans to deal with the mess he created.  No more than he anticipated whatever forged the unbreakable chain between you in the first place.  No...the shock that pummeled your mind when the new realization erupted within him--that was too immediate, far too visceral to be feigned.

There's one more thing that troubles you, as you near the end of your meal.  You're not like him, not...really.  You're neither warrior nor mystic, as Hux put it.  Even Kylo Ren himself said it at first.  Even if you could _fully_ trust what you think you can make of his motivations...the question remains: what if you just _can't_ do whatever it is Ren envisions?  What then, will his rage finally turn and tear you apart from within?  Or will the threat, whatever it is, spy weakness and overcome you both?

You finish the last of your soup.  You catch yourself contemplating ordering dessert for once--a delaying tactic, nothing more.  You opt against it as usual.  You don't accept indulgences like that here--the closest you come are your teas...but that, at least, has a medicinal purpose.  It's almost ridiculous to get hung up over such small things, considering that even though it's in the medbay, _you work_ _for the enemy_.  But somehow it feels...wrong to accept anything for pleasure as opposed to your health.

You stand and take your dishes over to the tiny 'kitchen' area and set them in the sink, which doubles as a sonic scrubber.  You slide the cover shut over them, hit the switch, and run a quick clean cycle, then head back over to the desk and tap the switch there too.  The panel that doubles as the desk flips back up into the wall, and clicks shut.  

Then...you take a seat on the couch.  Your skin crawls.  There can't be much time left.  You drift ever so slightly from self, and...

There it is: restless motion, caged energy, intent upon...yes.  Steel yourself--Ren is headed your way.

Rising from the sofa, you move first to the back section of your quarters, then pace your way back up to the front.  You tell yourself you're simply checking for any belongings left out, anything you don't feel like having Ren's eyes on--not that any of these are _your_ things, that actually mean anything to you.  The complete truth is, while it doesn't demand as insistently as it did earlier with Hux, you _need_ this, to order your thoughts amidst the electrical storm of emotions that rises in anticipation of what's to come.

Now.  _Now_.  You give the door a wide berth, still yourself, and wait.

Within less than a minute--you had the timing down _that_ precisely--the door to your quarters sweeps open to admit Kylo Ren.

He _marches_ his first few steps into the room, turns his gaze upon you...and he halts.  Even with his mask on, you can _feel_ his scrutiny as he takes in the sight.  The impression you receive is too turbulent, too many emotions intermingled for you to decipher, but your chest tightens for a moment as it pulls at you.  

In the mask's obsidian faceplate, you catch a faint reflection of a second, smaller black-clad figure-- _yourself_.  It's more of a silhouette than anything, in the dim light, but even that is enough to illustrate just how much more unity your clothing has with Ren's, than anyone else's you've seen aboard the _Finalizer_.  Your overtunic's materials aren't quite the same, and it's cut as a dress rather than a robe...but the interplay of textures, especially with the pleated armorweave coat visible at the sleeves and below the hem, makes the provenance of your vestments unmistakable.

You look up a few inches further, where the mask hides-- __  
  
_\--those searching eyes staring back, completely unavoidable even through this--_  
  
That-- _that_ wasn't a reflection at all.  Oh, it was still _you_ , but for a fraction of a second, everything shifted around, your field of vision constricted and you stood outside yourself, looking down...through his eyes.

Does he know--can he _feel_ it when this happens?

As if in response, Ren breaks his stillness, his surcoat swirling around him as he turns to the wall behind him.  In a single swift maneuver, he jabs the button on the wall to open the desk compartment and reaches back up to undo his mask.  It releases him with a hiss at the same time as the desk drops into position and the interior light switches on.  He sweeps the helm off his head and sets it on the desk as before, then turns back around to face you.

"You still have everything you need here?" he begins--curt, much as he 'sounds' when he checks with you from a distance.  He doesn't ask how you're doing...he never does, and you prefer it that way.

You nod.  Physically, you've lacked for nothing you require.  "I do," you reply.

"And at the medbay--has there been any more trouble?"  He scowls, his dark brow furrowing and casting his eyes deeper into shadow.  "If there has, do not keep it from me."

"No, no..."  The last thing anyone needs--yourself included--is Kylo Ren deciding he'd better pay the medbay a visit.  Zarander's already had to face that once.  And right on the heels of Hux's visit...no.  _You're_ enough for the doctor to have to cope with as it is. 

You're not sure if this will work, but for barely a breath, you meet Ren's eyes and instead of forming words with your mind, you aim your sense of certainty in his direction, that there have been no further...incidents.  Those space-black eyes widen out of their glower with a flash of astonishment.  "Actually," you elaborate aloud, "Dr. Zarander saw to things after General Hux left, made sure I had somewhere I could talk to you in private.  The rest of the day, well..."  You shrug.  "It wasn't horrible."

This is...another kind of surreal.  At least your external and internal senses now agree on the proximity of Kylo Ren--but the _words_ you speak...it would only need a few changes in names and particulars, and you could almost be having this conversation at the family dinner table on Dantooine after your last futile go-around on the holocomm with those Health Ministry bureaucrats.  Except for the part where you transmitted your _emotions_  to another person. And that--that's why you _can't have home_.  Your eyes cut away from Kylo Ren's scarred face and you slip your hands behind your back.  You can feel them knotting up out of view as you try to steady your breathing and force yourself back into the present.

Ren shifts his weight from one foot to the other.  He takes a step to the side, then cuts back to face you again, locking himself--with effort--back into place.  "I want you to know," he announces, "I had a _word_ with Hux, and I have let him know that _I will not tolerate_ another intrusion like today's...and that those little remarks of his were _completely_ out of line.  And I informed him that if he even _thinks_ he has some kind of problem with one of my people, I expect him to bring it straight to me instead of taking matters into his own hands.  I want to know right away if he shows his face again.  If he dares interfere with your duties a second time, it had better be because he's already having a medical emergency, or he _will_ be having one in short order!"

You shudder involuntarily at the threat--even on your behalf.  Yet even as a great part of you reacts to the violence that radiates from Ren's entire frame, there's another part that can't help observing, _Of course, if he's having an emergency, he's on the wrong deck!_

It's when you glimpse that fleeting smirk across Ren's face, as if to say, 'yes--exactly!' that you realize you accidentally thought that _at_ him.  

Damn.

It's not that you really regret _what_ you sent...you were half tempted to say it aloud anyway.  You're almost, _almost_ starting to get used to the idea of 'talking' without your voice, but it's so blasted difficult sometimes to keep things back when you don't have that clear delineation between thinking something to yourself and actually opening your mouth to say it--just a porous boundary somewhere inside your head that needs only a quick push to cross.   

Sometimes--like your next question, which has troubled you since Ren told you he was paying you a visit in person--this is the safest way under the circumstances.  But learning to live within this reality...that's a far cry from embracing it.

You meet Kylo Ren's fierce gaze again, and aim the question at him.  Carefully.  _Commander, about the things Hux said..._   Ren raises one baleful eyebrow at that.  Still, you forge ahead: you can sense it's not you in the targeting scope.  _Do you think he's going to try to make something out of your being here?  If he tries tracking either of us, if he_ wants _to see things a certain way--this training thing you were talking about earlier...it could--_  
  
_It's about time that Hux learn to remove his nose from all the places where it doesn't belong!_ he snaps.  Then he catches himself, folds his arms over his chest.  _He may try to make something of it.  But there are two things that will get in his way if he does.  First--neither of us has given ourselves over to_ that sentiment _; he can look for it all day and it simply is_ not _there._   There's something strange about his thoughts when he sends the words 'that sentiment': they twist under the weight of contempt...yet there's asense of--caution to his meaning...no, that's not exactly it.  _Precision_ , though you have no idea why that word comes to mind...this, yet not _that_...

But there's something else besides that: the phrase is fraught with a deep undertone that almost feels to you as if it could be the resonance of another voice overlaid atop Ren's own, a mantra in inhuman chords.  It's not actually another mind--even as foreign, as _new_ as all of this is to you, you feel like you'd recognize it if something actively interfered with the constant carrier signal binding you with Kylo Ren.  Still the haunting layers of intonation means something to you--something _wrong_ , something that makes you want to reach forth, to claw, to tear away, for lack of better words, though you have absolutely no idea what this instant of primal desperation is or why.

Ren's eyes seem to glisten for an instant as you try in vain to make sense of what you just felt.  Then he flicks his gaze down at the floor.  There's no time to parse any of it--he crushes whatever that was with brutal intensity, then looks back up and resumes eye contact as if nothing happened.  But in that moment... 

Quick.  Pay attention.   _Second_ , Ren is continuing, _you report to me.  Hux would have to be an even bigger fool than I thought, for him to think we'd_ never _have any contact with each other.  Now...what he--what_ absolutely no one _can know--is that the purpose of our meeting tonight is to begin your defense training._

 _I know you said you couldn't tell me what's going on_ , you send.  This is a long shot, but you have to try it.  _But the whole thing has to be hidden?  Can you please at least give me an answer to why that is?_  
_  
_ Ren takes a lunging step towards you, glaring, and then his entire body snaps taut with him merely a foot away.  You stand your ground as he hurls the thought at you: _Because we could_ die-- _how is_ that _for a reason?!_

 __Not _I_ could die.  Not _you_.  _We_.  

No hesitation, no prevarication, no layers inside layers--this... _is_.  And after all this time suspecting, of bracing yourself for this, it hits not with unchecked panic--but a dull acceptance whose very painlessness should be more alarming than it is.  For though you got nothing else from Ren, you got confirmation of one thing: that from all he knows of his Force, your lives truly are bound so tightly that the end of one is almost surely the end of the other.  He didn't _have_ to confirm it.  But he did.

The two of you retreat with one backward step each.

 _I still wish I had a better idea what was happening_ , you tell him--softly, but you tell him nonetheless. _A_ _nd if something changes, and you_ can _say, I want to know as soon as possible_.

To your surprise, Ren assents to this with a decisive, wordless nod.  

_I'll try to hold off asking again until then_ , you tell him.And with that you admit, _I'm not ready to die._

 __Ren ponders, somewhere beyond your senses.  Then comes his silent voice, solemn and resolute. _Nor am I._

 __It hardly startles you anymore when Ren's posture completely transforms and he's singlemindedly focused on the mission that brought him in here. _As I was saying--_ no one _can know that I'm training you.  That means the options are very limited._

 __Looking around you, you have to concur.  These quarters may be a vast improvement over that detention cell, but even if you moved the desk chair into the sleeping area, you guess you're probably still only looking at six feet by twelve feet of open space out here in the main living area that would be even remotely usable.  The solution would have been obvious back on Dantooine: with few exceptions, there wasn't much need for rooms with a lot of empty floor space, so as long as the weather wasn't completely intolerable, a group training to fight would probably just move outside.  But you'd guess that, like in one of Dantooine's few cities, there are specific places aboard the _Finalizer_ for combat practice.  Ugh...goodness knows there _have_ to be, with what you'd bet goes on with the Stormtroopers here.

But that option's probably off the table.  If you try to do anything here in your quarters, you figure that's going to impose some real limits on what Ren can actually teach you.  You wonder if maybe there's a cargo bay or some other area aboard the ship that nobody cares about, that might work instead.  Yeah, right...you saw what General Hux is like.  As ready as he was to interject himself in _your_ situation, you can't imagine there's anything, however minuscule, that's actually under his command that he 'doesn't care' about.

Then something pops into your mind, a way you might be able to practice in plain sight.  Sort of.  _It might be a little tricky_ , you warn him, _and I haven't actually seen the place myself, but I know the medbay has a PT clinic._ Physical therapy...you've actually made a fair number of referrals to them already.  _And I'm going to guess as big as this ship is, it's pretty sizeable.  I've talked with Dr. Keralac on the holcomm a few times...I'm not sure what I'd_ say _, exactly, but I might be able to clear a room for us._

 __Ren shuts that down with a decisive slash of the hand. _No.  Creative thinking_ \-- _but_ no _.  I have seen that place, and that's far more trouble than it's worth._ _If this is going to make_ any _difference, it's going to have to be a lot more than occasional, and that's going to draw a lot of attention.  No._ He starts to pace.  This time it's slow, methodical--his fists flex and unflex every few steps, preparing for something...  _I can train you here...there is a way._

 __So there goes the idea of anything really rigorous.  You're not sure how much good this is really going to do, but you suppose it's better than nothing. _I'll go move the chair out of the way_ , you offer.

The commander of the Knights of Ren shakes his head.  _There's no need.  Space doesn't have to be a problem._ How...?  _We would be physically here, but the real training--_   He raises his hand in a gesture you saw before, in the detention cell.  Oh...oh, no...he can't be serious--he _can't_ be serious...please, _no..._!  He taps his temple with one gloved finger.  _It would take place in our minds._

 __You're backing up towards the sofa--your knees threatening to buckle under you--but you _can't_ do that, you can't let your guard down.  Your eyes start to sting--your breath catches, and then escapes with a rasping whisper: " _No...!_ "  Your eyes flare wide.  Panic.  Your hand flies up to cover your mouth.  You bite your tongue--hard, harder, enough that you can feel the points of your molars threatening to drive down into the soft tissue, and it _hurts_...but it's enough to distract you into _some_ little bit of control.  Enough, at least, to lower your hand.  But that's about it.

Kylo Ren's voice ringing in your head: _It would--_

The fear remains, and the pain...the threat of tears recedes, replaced by _\--No!  Not again!  Not again!_ Now _you're_ the one stalking back and forth, keeping out of arm's length, though in this confined space that's dreadfully hard to do. _Don't do this to me again!_

This isn't like this morning.  It explodes out of you so fast there's practically nothing you can do to stop it--all you can do is harness it, channel the blast out of harm's way.  You turn to the side--not _facing_ him, thank goodness--don't break anything, keep your damn distance--too much pressure, too much _fury_ \--

Your dominant foot lashes out at the empty air...a wild, pitifully uncoordinated gesture--probably proves his damn point for him, just how _karking screwed_ you are if anyone really does try to take a shot at you.  Damn it all, damn it all...!

And you can see him out the corner of your eye, but more clearly than that you can _feel_ him watching--stock still, eerily silent.  Even his breathing you can hardly hear through the rush of blood in your ears.

As for _your_ breath, it comes in quick gasps.  You become aware of the pain in your mouth again.  There's a faint metallic taste as you move your tongue out from between your teeth.  Not much, but you clearly drew blood.  You stop, hunched over, your palms pressed to your thighs as you try to collect yourself.  Some of the crackling energy within you is spent--enough, at least, to bring you partway back to your senses.  You force yourself to breathe steadily--in...out...before you hyperventilate.

You count the seconds silently to yourself.  It's when you make it past thirty that you hear your first name resonate low in your mind.

You whip back around.  _What?!_ you snap.

A pause.  Then: _Will you_ listen _to me?_ He doesn't send the word 'please.'  But you can almost sense it behind the transmitted question.

What the hell is there to listen _to_?  Somehow the caustic thought stays contained, but it's got to be written all over your face regardless.  Still...you hold your silence, both vocal and mental.

After another beat, Ren takes that as invitation enough.   _I would create the place.  You would join, and you would perceive it, mostly, as if it were through your outer senses.  I've seen enough by now to think it's possible.  This would be...different from before.  It wouldn't be necessary to draw out your thoughts._  
  
Right, because it was _so_ necessary the first time!

So clinical--to draw out another person's thoughts--is _that_ what he calls it, the spinning and tearing like a tornado ripping through your memories, laying bare anything and everything he wanted to, and even more that just welled to the surface anyway under dread compulsion?  How could you ever-- _ever_ trust him not to do it again if it suited him?  He could destroy your very will...how do you know he hasn't done it to others?  

Hell, apparently he's even been going around _claiming_ to have done it to you, to at least some extent.  Yet for all the freedoms he's taken from you, for all of his insistence on loyalty the night he released you from detention, he's left you to your discontent and your revulsion for the First Order, and placed his reliance instead on whatever ability you have to feign being all that a new convert to his ruthless ideology should be.  Why _does_ he, so wrapped up in whatever fanatical belief drives him, tolerate it?  Well, you're not about to ask and tempt him to reconsider, that's for sure.

You're not silently _screaming_ it now, but still you shudder.  _Not again.  Not_ ever _again_.

 _As I_ said-- _that's_ not _how this would work_ , Ren stubbornly reiterates.  _This would be...like a vision._   He reaches for the words, then regards you meaningfully as another comparison comes to his mind.  _Or lucid dreaming, but conscious_.

 _You realize I almost got sick..._   You don't say when.  He knows.  He damn well better know.

You remember the horrific vertigo from the interrogation.  The intermittent vestibular disturbances from the first week of this entanglement of minds.  Your best guess is it had something to do with the dislocation of the consciousness, receiving impulses from two locations and two states at once, trying to process them both at the same time.  And during the interrogation, the _drawing out of your thoughts_ \--you faced all of that with Kylo Ren ripping at the archives in your conscious mind like some kind of cruel neurosurgeon probing the patient's brain before a procedure to find where the critical centers lay.

 _If that happens, this won't work.  But that should_ not _be a concern_ , he insists.  _Different approach.  And things have changed_...  The conduit that never closes...he makes that gesture again, tapping a finger to the side of his head--but it doesn't seem quite so menacing this time.

And he may be right.  Just a few minutes ago--feels like ages--something happened without a trace of intent.  You went outside yourself, returned in an instant...and not one hint of that feeling that the floor was spinning out from under you.  It's true.  You suspected before, when the headaches died away: you're... _adapting_.  More evidence that the binding of your minds, and therefore _none_ of this--not Ren, not the First Order, not whatever forces are arrayed against you _and_ Ren--is _ever_ going away.

 _I still don't like it_ , you warn him.  

The pale, dark-haired young man nods--staring at you.  Waiting.  Is this weakness, as the pragmatic part of your mind works its way closer to assent while the core of you still remembers all he's done to you and to so many, and revolts at the very concept?  Or is it strength, to stand straight, look the commander of the Knights of Ren in the eye, and deliberately step forward to confront whatever this power, this terror, can create?

You don't know.  Your heart is pounding.  You just know that your decision is made, how you will face Commander Ren.  _Now_ , you tell him.  _If we're going to do this, I want to get it over with._  
_  
You should sit down_.  Ren sweeps his hand at the sofa behind you.  

It takes a durasteel force of will to keep your knees from buckling to where you just fall to the cushion.  For a moment you almost go on autopilot, reaching for the throw pillow on the armrest.  Like all the furnishings here, it's nothing fancy, but it'll serve the purpose.  You prop the pillow up on the seat back directly behind you in case you need something to rest your head on--because there is no way in Malachor you'd even consider laying down, even and _especially not_ if whatever he does makes you feel like it.  It doesn't matter how vehemently he defended both of you to General Hux at the mere suggestion that he had any involvement with you in _that_ way: you are not going to allow yourself that much vulnerability in front of him.  _Hell_ no.

One long stride and Kylo Ren's closed the distance between the two of you, and from your seated position, he absolutely _towers_ over you.  Your practice, the wounded patients--fire, Stormtroopers marching--he demanded your secrets, pushed you back into that chair--oh, it all floods back.  Still, you hold your gaze in the here and now--you refuse to back down...

Ren's angular features grow inscrutable, but you catch a flicker of discontent beneath.  His robes flutter as he spins suddenly on his heel, and he marches himself two steps back over to the desk chair, moving it into a position that places seven feet or so between him and you.  Not much, but in the context of this cramped room...it's something.  He takes a seat in the chair, facing you.

Then he draws in a deep breath as if to speak, but the warning he gives is unspoken.  __

_Brace yourself_.

Even in silence you can't find the words--but he comprehends anyway.  He raises his black-gloved right hand...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **NOTE:** There's a lot going on here, I know...and while it may be surprising what manages to not provoke a certain character, I'm afraid it would be telling for me to explain completely why that is, though I'm happy to entertain your speculations. I have to kindly ask you to trust me that I do have the reasons and the psychology thought out. :)
> 
>  **SCI/TECH NOTE:** While I compare Kylo Ren's cruel interrogations to a neurosurgeon operating on a patient who is awake, I should note that in real life, that is actually a legitimate, appropriate, and humane practice in doing certain types of brain surgery, where the patient is wakened and tested to map out no-go areas where the surgeon should not cut or they risk doing major damage. The technique is likely to be even more widespread in the Star Wars universe, where technology is so far beyond our own. The Reader's point is about cruelty (see Palpatine having Anakin's surgery done in the most brutal manner possible) as opposed to technique.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **Songs**
> 
>  
> 
> [Zee--"Voices"](http://youtu.be/NrEr3_8IwKY): A VERY obscure track from the 80's...while most of the album isn't that great, this track does what the 80's did best: cold, dark, and an absolutely surreal atmosphere. The [lyrics](http://lyrics.wikia.com/wiki/Zee:Voices) are open to interpretation. Really suits the mood at the beginning of the chapter.
> 
> [Apocalyptica--My Friend of Misery (Metallica cover)](http://youtu.be/8keWCbmgCtQ): While I much prefer the instrumental and feel like that comes closest to the mood(s!) for the rest of the chapter, even the lyrics of the original aren't too bad even if not 100% on point for this section, so still throwing them up here for reference just because...


	9. Chapter 9

The first sign is the black haze that encroaches from the periphery of your vision.

You can't help it--a sharp, inward gasp as whatever Kylo Ren is doing to you this time first takes effect.  Your skin prickles, your heart pounds...is this a symptom Ren is inducing, or is it _the memory_ that suffocates you as he reaches through his Force, hand outstretched just as it was that night?

The interrogation--he seemed different then, the night of the raid.  Masked, yes--but utterly savage, utterly commanding in his presence.  Except that those few seconds...maybe a minute, at most?...the sight of him then feels insubstantial compared to all that came after.  Desaturated in a way that has nothing to do with color and shadow, yet time has done nothing to dull the awful memory.  But there are no _real_ answers in that fleeting moment, not even approximations.  Only the vaguest of guesses.

In the here and now, through your narrowing window of vision, you see Ren's eyes close, brow furrowing with concentration and...more.  His head bows and a weight seems to settle on his shoulders as though the gravity field in the room has doubled its pull on him and he wars between defiance and submission.

The blackness closes in, taking with it the angular visage of Kylo Ren.  Only after a moment of staring outward through blind eyes do you feel your eyelids slide shut.  As the hiss of the atmospheric recyclers diminishes in turn, your mind is still alert...no--more than that: sharp.  Vigilant.  You fall still yet not an ounce of fatigue steals over you, no hint of respiratory depression--no, the short, sharp breaths you draw are anything but.  It's not your awareness changing--that's not how it _feels_ , at least--it's all of you traveling demons only know where...he could do anything...bring any horror to life and there's no escaping--

 _Breathe_.  

Your thought.  His thought.  It's both of you in somber exhortation: slow and steady.  Ren needs no further description.  The tone, the resonance of it within you...that's enough to convey the rest, that neither of you forms into words.

A faint, sibilant sound rises out of the silence: the atmospheric recyclers returning in the darkness.  Why is that--has Ren's attempt failed?

No.  You draw the not-self to the forefront of your awareness.  There's _expectation_ there, but tinged with neither disappointment nor defeat.  Whatever _this_ is...it's what he intended.And there, in response to your exploration, comes Ren's voice.

 _Open your eyes_.

There's light up ahead.  You can distinguish...gunmetal grey.  Obsidian.  Silver.  The colors of the _Finalizer_.  Details fade in smoothly, as if someone is slowly turning up the brightness on a display.  This may be the _Finalizer_ , but it doesn't take long to realize these aren't your quarters.  And Kylo Ren is nowhere to be seen.  You become aware that you're standing in the middle of an empty corridor.  You've never seen anywhere on the ship so deserted, unless this is some sort of secured area almost no one normally has access to.  Though that may not be the true reason...

 _That's it_ , Ren sends, sounding...for those two words, anyway, almost pleased.  _You should be able to move now.  Follow the corridor straight ahead; you'll see an open door to your left.  That's where I'll be_.

You take your first steps within the illusion.  Your footfalls ring just as solidly on the metal deck as they would in reality--and from that you note that you're still wearing the durasteel-plated boots and all the rest of the vestments that mark you as answering to the Knights of Ren.  This is not like your dreams at all.  There...at least, as far as you can remember, you never appear as you do now.  There's another thing, as you keep walking.  To think of dreaming--to consider the intangible nature of this world--it doesn't dim your surroundings, pull you back to where you must still be sitting in your quarters.  

You stop in the replica corridor, lean back on one of the gunmetal grey walls, and look up.  The coat of pleated armorweave under your dress is too thick for you to feel any chill from the metal behind you.  The damned thing of it is, you don't know how you could return on your own.  Another layer of entrapment...is that what this is?

No, you tell yourself.  You felt the terror twice today, that Ren's worst-case scenario evokes in him: because _we_ could die.  Still--you won't _fully_ trust...not in _this area above all others_ \--until you have the ultimate proof.  Until it's over, and he releases you with no further effects than what his first intrusion has already created, you're _definitely_ going to stay on your guard.

You resume your forward progress.  And another part of you starts to absorb the experience, to consider--what is this?  How is it he's created something so immersive, so lifelike?  Even a dream, a memory...it always seems so ethereal when you bring it to the fore of your own recall.  Maybe this is a different _kind_ of memory: not of an event, but a _spatial_ memory, the inner map Ren himself uses to navigate his environment.  Yet somehow he's coupled his own innate knowledge to _your_ perspective, allowing you to experience it as yourself, rather than as an echo of the towering Knight who restricts his sight with a mask.  And now that you think about it, are you really sure a little of this cognitive map hasn't transferred to you already?

You shake your head.  Even in the midst of _this_ , you cannot stop wanting to know.

You keep moving down the corridor.  Any time now, you've got to be getting--ah, _there_.  To your left--an open door, leading into what, you don't know, except for one thing: that's where Ren awaits.  You draw in a deep breath, wondering if that action really matters here.  If it's reflected in any way in reality, or if practically speaking, you're completely out of your body.

No more time for speculation.  Inside is a gargantuan fitness and training center, with different areas splitting off of a central hallway ranging from weights to a swimming pool, an obstacle course, the start of a massive track that looks to run the perimeter of the entire facility--even something you'd almost swear is some sort of zero-g training area.  You don't know why the scale of this should surprise you after seeing the _Finalizer_ 's medbay...but even with all that's happened, three weeks simply is not enough for you to adjust from a rural village to the insane magnitude of _everything_ aboard the Star Destroyer.  And that's the _easiest_ adjustment you're being forced to make.

Just like the outer corridor, the training area is vacant--wait.  No...all the way at the end of the central hall, he's there: a looming figure in black, unmasked, unmistakable.  It doesn't matter how far he seems to be standing from you: you can feel his sharp gaze from all the way back here as it pierces into you.

Rather than call out down the long hall, Ren summons you with his mind's voice.   _Join me here and we'll begin._  
  
You acknowledge with a tense nod.  He doesn't press you for anything further--your intent, reluctant as it is, seems to suffice.  You start your way down the hall at a rapid clip lest your resolve slip away between steps.  The _sound_ of it...astonishment flares briefly within you yet again as you step onto carpet and your footfalls shift from a crisp _crack-crack-crack-crack_ that sounds too much like the Stormtroopers who raided your home, to a muffled _thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk_.  Every detail, whether consciously or not, is attended to.  If it weren't for the place being absolutely deserted except for the two of you, and the memory of Ren immersing you into this inner reality...

As you near him, Commander Ren sweeps his arm towards the room to your right.  _Here_ , he sends as he turns to lead you in.

The floor is covered with a padded mat in red and black, the symbol of the First Order emblazoned on the far wall.  Sparring gear--at least, that's what it looks like--sits on racks recessed into the wall, some of whose purpose you can only guess at.  But none of that is what brings you to a halt mid-stride.  It's when you realize what, even with the apparent distance between the two of you closed, Ren still has not done though the seclusion of the mirage should allow it.

Sensing the inquiry rising, he spins around, immediately locking eyes upon you.  Something flares up and reflects across his face with a scowl...impatience?  Then his brow relaxes just a bit.  Yes--you're delaying him, but...it seems he's intrigued enough to play this out and see where it goes.  You pose the question.  _Commander, is there a reason you're not speaking?  I didn't think we could be overheard...does it not work here, or is there something else?_

 _No one can hear us here, no; what you do here doesn't happen on the outside.  We are both_ capable _of talking here, but if one of us gets a comm call and I have to break us out of this fast, I'm_ not _about to allow something compromising to be blurted out over an open channel.  This way, you should have enough time to gather your wits.  There will be a few exceptions as we go_ , Ren clarifies, _but for the most part we'll continue like this._ As he thinks the last two words, one finger sketches out a rapid, elliptical orbit running from the side of his head towards yours.

 _Understood._ That makes sense, but...then you run his words back.  A comm call?  He could _hear_ that somehow?  Your eyes narrow as you try in vain to catch _some_ sort of echo from the physical world.

This doesn't escape Ren's notice.  _That's_ not _all, is it?_

_You're able to know what's going on outside of this?_

__The commander of the Knights of Ren squares his shoulders. _Through the Force--yes.  If_ anything _impinges on my space, if it challenges me, if it_ tries _to threaten me, I sense it immediately.  You can be_ sure _of that._

Of course it would come down to the Force...the undetectable energy that Kylo Ren wielded to uproot your life from the inside out, and ravage the lives of who knows how many others.  You feel your stomach tighten--the realism of this place yet again--but you steel yourself.  This is it; it's been lurking in the back of your mind all day like yet _another_ brooding presence.  There are some expectations you absolutely must get straight right away, and as much as you'd prefer not to broach the subject, the truth is it's inevitable.  He's given you the opening...you might as well seize it and hope fervently that you have _some_ kind of chance.

 _I'm...not a Force-wielder_ , you say.  _At least, I don't_ think _I am.  I don't really know--I mean, something very abnormal is going on here, for me to be able to send and receive thoughts.  For my mind to be tied to someone else's.  I can't sense anything else outside of myself, and unless someone is doing a really good job of covering it up, my thoughts don't go through to anyone other than you.  And I can't manipulate_ objects _with my mind like you do._ You catch yourself mimicking the gesture Commander Ren uses to guide his actions through the Force, and yank your hand behind your back as soon as you realize.  You're not sure if it's more fear that Ren will think you're mocking him--or just the sheer oddness of illustrating your words with your hands when you don't even shape them with your lips.  But you can't suppress it entirely...and who knows, maybe you're not supposed to.  Probably not even a protocol droid would know what the rules are for conversing without your voices.  

Either way, you still feel yourself shaking your head as you add, _I wouldn't even know where to begin with that._ _If there's supposed to be something else there that I could feel_ , _besides what I already can...I'm missing it, and I don't know that there's anything I can do about it.  I'm not sure if you're expecting me to manifest the same kinds of powers that you have, but whatever you--whatever has happened to me...it's been a lot for me to come to grips with, but doesn't seem to go beyond that.  I...don't want you to..._

 _...be disappointed_ , Ren finishes seamlessly, in a low tone that mirrors your own.  Then indignation twists his features as he catches on to the wordless undertone of your thoughts.  _Or--what, you think I'll_ punish _you for it?_

You freeze into place as surely as if he had reached out with his mind and bound your body the way he seized your wrist the night of the raid.  He knows--he _knows_ \--denying it would be futile.  No--worse than futile-- _lying_ to him would surely ignite his wrath, yet the truth...what would _that_ do?  Even without trying to speak, the tightness in your chest and the tension through your jaw tells you that you probably couldn't right now even if you wanted to.  You can't even string the words together to send a coherent thought.  Hell, you can't even tear your eyes away from his--not that it would cut or even fray the cord between you, but still.  And much as you want to hold it back, _something_ is probably still sending whether you like it or not, even if it's just your dread itself--

Ren emits an exasperated sigh.  _Believe it or not_ , he insists, _I have not come undocked from reality--I know very well I can't expect you to have control over something like your level of Force-sensitivity.  And_ _I do_ not _spend every waking moment scheming up torments to inflict on you like some sort of_ monster _!_ That last--it strikes deep. He stands for a second with his arms outspread in an almost placating gesture.  Then he averts his eyes, and you hear it when his gloved hands drop to his side.

He turns and paces a few steps towards the wall, the one where the First Order insignia glares down at you both.  Though all you can see is the shock of black hair that flows down to just short of his shoulders, you can _feel_ the rapt attention he devotes to the symbol, as if seeking some sort of reassurance.  Or a blessing.  Whatever it is, you wish he would stop and face you again.  Somehow that would be preferable to _this_.

Finally Ren turns back to you.  _You asked about your relationship with the Force.  And you're right.  You're_ not _a Force-wielder--not by any traditional definition, anyway.  That's not to say you're completely_ without _the Force.  No living thing is.  You simply don't have it in the measure it takes to make it_ serve _you, for the most part.  I can sense the type of connection that any person has to the Force, and that part hasn't changed much.  Why we were left with our minds locked together like this in spite of your not having power over the Force...it has no precedent that I have any way to know of._ _I know some part of you works differently now because of this--but you don't have to be afraid I'll expect you to command the Force._

Well, _that_ much is a relief.  Though if that's true...your thoughts return to the pain of Ren's invisible grip tightening around your wrist, forcing you to drop the scalpel you'd scooped up.  A pathetic defense against power of that magnitude.  Damn it, what kind of hope _is_ there, in the face of that?  _Since your kind of powers are out of reach for me_ , you send, _is there much I'd actually be able to learn from you, Commander?_

 _Far more than you might think--b_ _elieve me on that._ He starts walking, seeming to weave his ideas together with the motion.You keep pace at his side, and you feel him working through the connection to you--not drawing out your thoughts, but calling on...whatever he perceives as the not-self within _him_.  _For any other non-Force-wielder I explain this to_ , he begins, _the esoteric parts of the Force are near impossible for them to relate to; they have no way to experience it.  Other powers...they can observe it in front of them even if they can't duplicate it, so the_ concept _makes some sort of sense.  For you it's almost inverted.  This inward expression of the Force..._ Both of you come to a stop.  Ren sets his hand to his chest.  _This is what you understand directly, and I can see how that has shaped your thoughts.  So let me help you bring that perspective outward a bit._   He lowers his hand, palm upward, as if offering something to you.

 _Consider these questions_ , Ren sends.  _Do you think when I reach out to something with the Force, or if I use it to push past my physical limits, that I can control it, or make sound tactical decisions, if I don't understand what exactly it is I'm trying to circumvent?  Or if I can't predict what the_ response _will be to what I'm doing?_  
_  
_ You don't have the kind of knowledge he does--you're a medic, not a warrior...but then it dawns on you.  _It would be like treating the symptoms without diagnosing the disease_ , you respond.  _Or recognizing the disease, but not the role the symptoms play.  It doesn't matter how many thousands of years we've understood: some people still insist of treating every little fever as soon as they feel uncomfortable.  But when you do that, unless the fever is high enough to damage the body in and of itself, you're depriving your body of one of the chief weapons it needs to fight the infection.  You may feel better in the short run, but you'll hinder your recovery.  I guess what I'm saying is that you have to understand the whole system.  Not just parts of it._

 __Commander Ren mulls over your response--then he favors you with a nod of approval. _It's the same for me_ , he confirms. _Every technique I employ with the Force has a basis behind it.  If I want to halt an object in motion, or change its trajectory, for example, I have to know when and where to apply the counterforce, and how much to use._ Ren demonstrates by 'throwing' his left fist, then ensnaring it with his other hand and pulling back against the original direction of travel.  _Otherwise, I could miss entirely...or under certain circumstances, I could end up with a lethal ricochet._ He sets up the same motions--except this time you actually jump when his fist _cracks_ against his palm, the sound seemingly amplified by his gloves.  
_  
It's not_ all _instinct or mysticism_ , Ren continues, offering no comment on your reaction. _It's the same for combat.  I have to be able to read threats--yes, I can sense things through the Force, but I have to prioritize them and decide how to handle them.  To weigh the costs of responding strictly with the Force, versus engaging directly.  If all I knew were just my powers, and nothing about..._   He searches for the word.  _About unassisted combat techniques, or tactics, then I'd hardly be able to anticipate and defeat my opponents._

 _So_ , Ren continues, _we can dispense right now with this notion that I have nothing to teach, that you can put to use for yourself.  I_ also _want you to forget any idea that what I am going to show you is 'beyond you' in any way.  Remember this: of all people, I have the insight to sense the difference between your true, hard limits, and the ones that only exist in your mind.  And for this to work..._   

He folds his hands behind his back, stilling himself completely by an act of will, and locks his coal-black eyes upon yours.  As for you--you feel your own hands starting to clench as if of their own accord.  There's something about the intensity of his focus on you...something about the turbulent undercurrent that carries through to you...you almost don't want to hear whatever's coming next.  But it's not as if even sticking your fingers in your ears would do anything to dampen Ren's voice in your head.  

Ultimately, he just comes right out with it, every syllable carefully...enunciated?...no, that's not the right word, considering that this has nothing to do with forming words with his mouth.  Still, there's a precise pacing...a weight to it, that has much the same effect.  Your name resonates within you.  Then he sends, _You_ must _begin to trust that when I challenge you to break the second kind of limit, that I am_ not _out to sabotage you and I am_ not _out to make you suffer for my amusement._

Except for the little fact that Kylo Ren--he, and no other--was the one to rip you away from everyone and everything you ever cared about...sure, no problem at all!

Your nails dig into the palms of your hands.  What he asks--it's impossible--you can't forget...and yet...damn it, you _need_ whatever it is Ren has to teach you.  You... _want_ to know.  Turning this into a constant battle--it would be reckless of you.  

Fine.  Screw it.  You draw a slow breath.  The pressure-pain in your palms weakens as you force your hands to uncurl despite yourself.  There's something about the reflection you glimpse in his eyes, something that chokes off the bitter retort you nearly opened with, about _obviously_ having no choice in keeping an open mind.  _Commander Ren...I...I promise that I will try.  I...don't know how to give you any more than that.  But...I_ will _try._ You hold your gaze to his, willing him to understand.

Assent.  There are no words.  Comprehension simply wells up from within: there is your answer.

With that, Ren shifts his focus and it's back to business.   _Let me show you something.  Know first that if someone tries to do this to you in a real fight, this is_ not _a complete solution by any means.  You'll probably need to do other things--very quickly.  But I want you to see this regardless._   _Now..._   He draws within arm's length of you, then stops, raising his right hand.  _I want you to place your wrist in my grip.  Your job will be to break free._

 __The scalpel in your hand--your arm behind your back--and Kylo Ren reaching out with all the power of his mind and clamping your wrist tighter and tighter until the pain forces you to drop your impromptu weapon...

You draw in a shuddering breath.  You just _promised_ him.  You wish you hadn't.  You wish he'd never asked--and that none of this had ever happened.  Still...you try anyway to tell yourself that he has a reason, something other than dragging you back through yet another nightmare.

 _You have a chance_ , he sends.  _There will be no Force._ __  
_  
_ Even in this illusion your whole arm is trembling and there's nothing you can do to hide it from him.  But you do it.  You step forward, raise your own right arm into a position that almost mirrors his.  The sleeve of your outer dress slides down to reveal a bit more of the your undertunic's pleated sleeve...damn, that puts a chill down your spine, seeing that inches away from _his_.

Ren seizes hold of your wrist.  It doesn't matter how much you tell yourself this isn't real, it isn't really happening; your heart still hammers furiously in your chest.  _On my mark, try to break my grip.  If I tell you to stop, do it_ immediately.  _Ready?_ You nod.  _Now!_

 __You try to pull back towards your body.  That doesn't work--it's not as brutally unyielding as that horrific Force grip, his hand moves with you a few inches, but he's not giving way.  You're still trapped.  Damn it--got to get more leverage!  You start stepping back, leaning your weight into it--still not enough--in fact, he yanks you forward _hard_ , throwing your momentum and pulling your hand to barely an inch away from his chest.  With all your focus on keeping your feet from going out from under you, you're forced to stop struggling against his grasp for a critical second.

 _Stop!_ he commands.  _Back to starting positions._   Each of you takes a step back in synch.  His fingers remain encircled around your wrist.  _I want you to_ think, he urges you.  _You have everything in your mind that you need to do this.  Think to what you know!  Before you try again, I want you to look carefully, and think how to use that to your advantage.  You_ know _this!_

 __Damn it, he knows full well you haven't had a day of combat training in your life-- _how_ can he so vehemently insist you know how to do something you've never attempted even once in your life?  Irritation flares to life inside you.  This is ridiculous.  _Save that for the moment you make your move_ , he cautions you.  _And you_ do _know this--you know how every joint in the body works.  Look again, and_ think _!_

 __Every joint--that's hard to see given those black gloves he never removes, but...you think.  What about injuries of the hand?  Not blunt force trauma--not like what you did to your own hand recently--no.  Injuries to the joints.  A memory floats to the surface: a teenaged boy back on Dantooine coming to you with one finger horribly swollen and sprained after a slingball slammed into it at full speed, bending it backwards past its range of motion--

That's it.  Fingers and thumb--they'll yield to a sharp enough force aimed the right direction...

Ren's command: _Now!_  
__  
Your entrapped hand balls into a fist, your lips pull back into a snarl, and you snap your arm as hard as you can to your right side, towards the point where Ren's thumb and fingertips converge, and-- __

_That's it!_

Your wrist breaks free of Kylo Ren's grip--victory!  And for just a second, the emotion redoubles and it doesn't matter how utterly outmatched you still are: you forget yourself and stand there grinning like an idiot at what you've just accomplished.

 _That's it_ , Ren sends again.  _What did you learn from this?_

 _To target where the hand is weakest_ , you answer.  _That's where it'll give way._

_Correct--and what else?  What does that show you about fighting against greater physical strength?_

_That if you apply the right_ kind _of force, you might still have a chance_.

Ren nods.  _With the right technique, that will sometimes be true.  There are still situations you will need to do your utmost to avoid, where you will be at a disadvantage because of your size, strength, and stature.  That is simply a fact.  And that's why later we are_ also _going to address how to_ use _any weapons you improvise from your environment, because it will be to your advantage to avoid going hand-to-hand if at all possible, and to keep your enemy at a distance.  On that..._   You get the sense he's treading lightly here, and he damn well should, if he's headed where you think he is.  And...he is.  _You were right.  But that does_ not _mean there is nothing you can do even unarmed.  Now...there is one more thing I wanted you to see--and this is the most important of all.  Do you know what that is?_

 __Your brow knits into something like a scowl as you rack your brain--but this time you're drawing a blank.  After several seconds, you finally shrug and admit, _I'm not coming up with anything else._  
_  
That you already have knowledge that you can use to help you_ , Ren emphasizes.  _What you know about anatomy will help you to grasp the principles I teach you.  This is a radically different application for that knowledge than you've ever needed before, and yes, you_ do _have a great deal to learn--not everything will be that immediately apparent.  More than that...you will need_ extensive _practice to take the principles I teach you from theory to instinct.  But--you are_ not _starting from quite as frail a foundation as you thought._ That _, even more than this technique, was what I wanted you to see._

This was _not_ what you signed up for when you began your studies back home...not by a long shot.  But now, in _this_ life, where you actually have to wonder from day to day just who out of those you come into contact with might want to kill you, as much of a bastardization of your medic's training as it is, you _need_ every advantage, however tiny, that you can get.  _So if you don't mind me asking_ , you send, _where do we go from here?_

 _We'll continue in a similar vein to what we just did, at first--basic defensive moves, the sort of thing you can use to help you escape a situation, or buy yourself time.  We will also work on your basic situational awareness; there is still a lot of room to improve that without the Force...in fact, I am particularly going to want to work on that with you because of the unique challenge_ this _presents you_.  And there's _that_ sign again--one finger to the temple, indicating the inexplicable tie between minds. _It will_ also _be important for you early on to learn how to react properly to being hit, or to falling or being thrown to the ground._ You barely even have a chance to form the pang of unease in your gut into a coherent thought before Ren retorts, _You don't want the first time that happens to you to be when you're attacked out_ there _, do you?_   The sweeping gesture he punctuates his question with barely makes any sense considering your complete disconnection from physical reality, but it makes the point well enough.

And you have to admit...he's got you there, with one of those damned logical _reasons_ again.  _No, that wouldn't be a good thing_ , you concede.  _Better here than somewhere else._  
__  
Exactly.  Learning how to minimize injury--or just as bad, letting the shock keep you from thinking straight--are important first steps before you can seize control _of the situation.  And ultimately, once you've learned how to extricate yourself from whatever someone throws at you, that_ has _to be the next step: to press the attack and do whatever it takes to_ end _the threat._   The steel in his silent voice--all you can think is how many men and women...even _children_...that this man has put in their graves.  Even in the illusion, you can feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.  Ren doesn't miss a thing.  _If it comes down to your life versus someone else's--and_ it very well may _\--any hesitation whatsoever is_ very _likely to cost you your life._  
_  
_ You hope dearly that Ren is wrong about the unnamed threat, or that _something_ will change and put an end to it, if it's out there.  

_I know I said I was going to try not to ask any more questions_ , you begin with trepidation, _but do you have any idea how long I might have until whatever I learn ends up being put to the test?_ Even one more likely futile intelligence-gathering attempt beats further discussion of Commander Ren's cold declaration.

Ren rebuffs your inquiry as expected.  _There's no way to say when it could be.  But one thing you also need to recognize immediately is that you never have been truly and completely defenseless, even_ before _today.  Even though it only offers you partial protection..._ Ren pauses, tilting his head ever so slightly to the side as if catching a glimpse of something new in your countenance.  _You_ do _recognize it, somewhat.  Your coat and inner sleeves are in fact armorweave, and its main purpose is to absorb blaster bolts.  It won't stop it completely, but it can take even a high-intensity shot and dissipate some of the energy along the channels in the fabric_ _\--_

Your hand flies up, clutching at your left side, just below your ribs, before it even registers: _\--fire knifes its way inside as lightning runs through bands across the skin--all air kicked out of the lungs--_

"Ahh--!"  As if the _stabbing_ weren't enough, you almost jump at the sound of your own voice.  Your hand presses harder to--there is no wound, there is no wound--and you summon the will to choke off the rest of the scream.

In the same instant, Ren's eyes flare wide.  The agony just _switches off_ , though the nerves in the area prickle out a faint protest after the fact.  _You_ felt _it?!_

 _Yes--yes--what_ was _that...!_   Ire seethes beneath the surface--you _want_ to unleash it...and yet...

That long scar stands out in sharp relief against Kylo Ren's pale countenance-- _paler_ now.  _A memory_.  A beat of silence.  Then: _It was not intended for you._  
_  
_ Ren offers no protest as you shunt your _self_ to the side, move 'forward' along the bridge between minds and pull the turbulent _other_ to the fore of your awareness.  Nothing leaps forth to subsume you.  But there-- _this_ path is unobstructed...no, rather, this path is _cleared_ for you to proceed.  Ren's thought-voice fills your awareness--unsent and half-formed words remembered, an unfettered stream of consciousness so rapid, multilayered, and idiosyncratic as to hardly be recognizable, for this is the deep inner voice before one can gather it into order-- _complete shock--her eyes like wounded in battle, seen it so many times--can see/sense it_ hurting _..._ _no, no, no, stop it_ , stop it _,_ _mind on the vision and not_ then _...!_

 __The recall ceases--you return to yourself--some combination of the two. _That_...that was a fragment of truth laid bare for you.  What to do--what to _say_ to that...this much is unmistakable: that relived pain _wasn't_ meant for you.  No...Ren told you true.  This erases nothing that has happened since the night he brought fire to your home--but the storm inside you has all but subsided for the moment.  You _have_ to say something, not by compulsion or command...but by choice.  Softly you offer your response: _I understand._

 __Ren acknowledges with a nod.  Somehow it seems...wrong, to expect more.  It doesn't surprise you when he decides, _We will conclude here for today.  Close your eyes..._

As the darkness enfolds you, so too does the silence just as before, and that sense of motion as you pass from the illusion through to sensory deprivation.  Then your senses slowly reintegrate with your true body, and you gradually become aware of yourself sitting on the stuffed couch in your quarters, your head leaned back on the pillow you propped beneath it before this began.  You hear fabric shift--Ren has recovered.  

As for you, you keep motionless, eyes closed, breathing slowly in and out, for several indeterminate moments.  Whatever...adaptations your nervous system has made over the past three weeks, you're not about to risk doing too much too fast until you have a much better idea exactly what you can handle.  There aren't exactly papers in the _Galactic Journal of Neuroscience_ you can study on the subject.  And what the hell would you _title_ the thing, anyway?  'Neurophysiogical implications of Force-mediated extrasensory communication and environmental simulation processes: a case study'?  Imagine getting _that_ through peer review.

The corners of your lips quirk upward--and immediately you hear, _What?_

 __Slowly you open your eyes, grateful that with the exception of the lights in the desk compartment where Ren's mask is sitting, your quarters aren't that brightly lit.  You look up--Ren is standing over you observing, leaned slightly forward, just outside arm's length.  Not like Hux; there's...recognition of personhood there.  That stare unnerves you at first...but the feeling fades as you slowly stand, return his gaze, and arrange your thoughts.

 _Just a stray mental image that amused me_ , you answer.  _And...relief to be back, I guess._

 _I see_ , Commander Ren acknowledges.  A ghostly wisp of a smile flits across his face.  Almost as soon as the expression registers with you, it's faded. _On the whole_ , he declares, _this was a success.  There is_ far _more to do, of course, and we will need to continue as often as we can.  The exact time will vary somewhat from day to day, though most likely around now, and I may be unavailable altogether on occasion.  But I expect full lessons to last somewhere around an hour.  Not as long as I would like--but that will have to do._  
  
_Right.  I'd imagine too much raises the risk of Hux poking around_ , you figure.

 _I believe there's a way around some of that_ , Ren sends.   _We will attempt this remotely tomorrow; physical proximity doesn't matter for either of us, so I expect it to work no differently than today._  
  
You raise an eyebrow at that.   _I assume there'll be some sort of warning first?_  
  
The young man scowls.  _Of course.  Collapsing out of nowhere in front of others_ would _tend to interfere with the 'covert' part of 'covert operations.'_ Wait.  That felt less like annoyance, and more like...that couldn't have been just slightly in jest, could it?

Either way, the best approach is to be as matter-of-fact as your thoughts will allow you to be.  _It certainly would_ , you reply.

 _Then you can expect to hear from me tomorrow evening_ , Ren informs you.  _You will have ample time to prepare in whatever manner you find necessary._

 _I'll be ready_.  Your gut still clenches a bit at the prospect--especially the idea that he could alter your state of consciousness from such a distance.  But then, hasn't it occasionally been happening in a sense from the beginning, without either of you deliberately willing it, in certain of your dreams?  Plus, the illusion, as surreal as it is to shift in and out of it, is now a known quantity.  Disconcerting, yes--but _not_ an interrogation, thank all that is precious.  And...you can't help wondering what you might learn next.

Ren scoops his mask off of the mini-desk and closes the compartment.  But before he slips the helm over his head, he turns back around with it sitting in his hands facing towards you.  It almost startles you when his lips move, and you actually hear his words with your ears.  "You did well."

You didn't really _do_ much--you certainly didn't fight other than one small effort, but...those few words are fraught with a far greater weight.  Nothing is forgotten.  Yet you can't help but offer more than a rote response when you tell him, "Thank you."

With that, Kylo Ren slides his mask back on.  Once ensconced within, he marches out into the corridor and the door slides shut, removing the slender, robed figure from your external senses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SONG:
> 
> Pale 3--"[In My Head](https://youtu.be/qeCx9f1P_Fg)" (Trust me, you will want headphones for this one.)
> 
>  
> 
>  **NOTE:** I am so sorry for the delay, guys...please accept this late Revenge of the Fifth gift. This was a long chapter--but as the writing process went on, it took a turn as a theme besides the combat training started to emerge, and by the end of it...a Rubicon of sorts seems to have been crossed. I hope you will enjoy it!
> 
>  **SCI/TECH NOTE:** "Imagine getting that through peer review." Oh, we haven't even touched on the thermonuclear sh*tfit that an IRB would (rightly) throw over this one, assuming it were published in Republic territory. It would be the first time they ever issued a report filled with expletives. I bet especially :devijudgelove: will get some mileage from that mental image... :)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **To all you Readers out there...** I apologize for the long delay on this section. I had a very serious certification exam for my job that it was critical I pass. I'm happy to say that I DID pass the exam, so now I'm back to writing. Still, I am sorry about the delay.

**Two months after the Raid on Dantooine  
** Aboard the Star Destroyer _Finalizer_ \--Medbay  
  
Another racking, congested cough from your latest patient almost makes you wince, not just at the dreadful sound, but the _stench_.  Thank goodness for your durasteel-plated stomach: that might have even knocked General Hux himself flat.  As for Lieutenant Commander Gavin Sandskimmer, you have no idea how _he_ tolerated it so long that he's only just now seeking help.  According to his records, this is the first the Tatooine-descended officer has come here for what has to have had its roots _weeks_ ago.

"I'll need to sequence a sample to be sure," you're telling Sandskimmer, "but your symptoms, and the history you've given me, strongly suggest you have at least _two_ active infections: one viral, possibly an influenzoid, and a secondary bacterial infection, which has progressed to bronchitis."

The tall, thin officer frowns, drawing his worn features taut.  Damn...if it weren't for his short hair and the thin beard on his chin, the look would _almost_ remind you of Kylo Ren: a comparison _no one_ can know you have the basis to make.  Sandskimmer, for his part, clears his throat--or tries to, at least--and asks in urbane tones that reveal he was raised in the First Order, whatever his blood heritage: "How quickly can this be cleared up?  The sooner I can be back to full effectiveness, the better--I'm sure you understand..."

"Since you've got more than one infection to contend with, I'll be prescribing custom immunotriggers to better target your immune system's response.  But for this to work effectively...you're really going to need to rest so your body has all the resources it needs to take down both infections.  Otherwise you might end up picking up _another_ infection on top of the ones you've already got.  Or what's already in your system could end up with time to adapt before the immunotriggers finish the job."  You lower your voice, your face still the semi-impassive mask you maintain before your new world save one, but despite that, and despite your continued loathing of all the First Order represents, you can't help but feel a twinge of concern for the exhausted young officer.  "Have you taken _any_ time off to rest since all of this first started?"

Like _you're_ one to talk.

The past few nights have been...hellacious, and there's been virtually nothing you can do about it.  Two nights ago you jolted out of your hard-won sleep screaming, scrabbling at the covers, grabbing for something-- _someone?_ \--and the near-darkness of your quarters, instead of comforting you, choked you, reaching with lifeless, gaunt fingers the size of a city, made of fog and shadow to profane everything they touched.

You lost the rest of the imagery but the horror of that enormous, grasping shadow when you got up.  You tried all the usual tricks from the past two months.  A cold glass of water...a fresh change of pajamas free of terror-sweat...humming a lullaby your grandmother used to sing to you when you were little, even though that little comfort also brings mourning for lost Dantooine...nothing worked as you lay there trying to go back to sleep.  It didn't even help that there is no sunrise in your windowless quarters.  You couldn't even deceive yourself into believing it was still early into the night.  Not with the bolts of anxiety and frustration arcing into your brain from the outside.

And last night...well, it _started_ like that, with a crawling dread that wreathed its way around the edges of your mind, defying your strict discipline, your herbal tea, everything.  It had to be pure stubbornness that kept you in the dark, under the covers, _instead_ of doing everything else that seared its way through your nerves.  Pace.  Cry.  Scream.  Rip something to shreds. 

You may have managed to stay in bed, but real rest--calm--quiet dreams--none of _those_ were on the list.  What pale excuse for sleep you _did_ get was mere punctuation in a string of nightmares that you dodged helplessly in and out of between bouts of tossing and turning.  

And the last...the worst...running away.  You're on Dantooine--you _can't be here_ anymore--you have to run, back to the _Finalizer_ somehow, get away before the fire rains down.  Ren--where is _Ren_?  The voices of parents, grandparents, cousins, friends, even your late mentor, cry out behind you...why?  Why?  We thought you loved us--why?  And you do everything you can not to hear, not to look--your eyes, your ears, they are like swords, they must not _ever_ touch the ones you love--or else-- _or else_ \-- _no, no, no!_   Terror through you, terror surrounds you, you run, run, run faster than you knew your feet could take you, heedless of where you're going, until--a black shape-- _collision_.  The impact slams the breath out of you, knocks you back--you're falling, falling...this time every muscle in your body seizing in one massive jolt--

You woke.  Your heart pounded.  Your ears and cheeks burned with... _embarrassment_ ,for some reason.  And you knew...you felt...there would be no more sleep for the night.  Not for you...and not for Kylo Ren.

In present moment, you desperately hope that Sandskimmer can't see your fatigue through the Knight's persona you maintain.

It's hard to tell at first.  Sandskimmer just blinks incredulously at you and stares for a second.  Does he see?  Then again...it's probably just the idea that one of Kylo Ren's people would not only _be_ here, but would ask such a question.  Straightening, he replies, "No...there's been far too much to do, and there's only going to be _more_ over the next several days--I just can't be spared--"

You're not sure which one interrupts first: another round of rancid hacking from your patient, or the insistent chiming of the personal holocomm hanging off of his belt.

Sandskimmer eyes the name flashing on the holocomm.  "Pardon me...I can't delay this," he says as he readies the device in his palm.  You nod and he switches the comm on.  "This is Sandskimmer," he announces in a rough voice, louder than he ought to.  "What do you have to report?  And keep it brief--I'm slightly indisposed at the moment."  His eyes cut over in your direction.  You're not sure if the man on the other end can see you, but the implication is clear.

A solidly-built, dark-skinned man replies, his holographic figure clearer even in miniature than any holoimage you've ever seen outside the First Order.  " _We've conducted a full manual review of the change authorization logs, sir, and there's just no indication of who pushed that code to production!_ "

Sandskimmer grits his teeth.  "What _exactly_ are you telling me, Lieutenant?  That someone circumvented proper procedures?  Or that someone has used false login credentials?"

Wow.  You may be no programmer, butin _no_ field of work do the words 'false login credentials' sound good.  Do _not_ react, you tell yourself, doing everything in your power not to show it on your face...and not to broadcast.  Now is _not_ the time, not while you're acting in a medical capacity.

 _"There's just no record of that code moving from test to production at all!  All of the changes that went through under crew credentials check out--all of them proper changes, all of them approved, all of them confirmed to have stayed the same between test and production--no code added after your final approval, sir.  Just the authorized patches._ "

"Then we had better work on getting a cause identified," Sandskimmer rasps, "because 'I Don't Know' is _not_ an acceptable reason code to submit on an incident report."

" _Of course not, sir_."  The younger man on the holocomm struggles to lighten the mood, though if he could see you--if you could actually speak your mind, part of you finds that regardless of his affiliation, you'd almost want to warn him off.  " _I suppose that would be an even_ worse _report to run up the chain than trying to write up another pebmas error and make_ that _look good_.  _Poor Ops Support--their sabacc hand_ really _soured on them last night--_ "

You have no idea what a 'pebmas error' is--some sort of device, coding terminology?--or even if it's an actual word, or an acronym instead.  Whatever it is, Sandskimmer's eyes flare wide and his sickly complexion drains even further.  He sets a finger to his lips and furiously shushes his subordinate.  "This...is... _not_...a good time to discuss that!"  He breaks into another coughing jag.  Once he regains control, he grinds out, "I am in the middle of being seen in the medbay and we are _not_ going to discuss _either_ 'error' any further; do you follow me?  I expect a full status report on your investigation when I return!"

The junior officer on the holocomm visibly gulps.  " _Yes, sir.  I'm on it, sir._ "

"Sandskimmer out."  Your patient switches off the holocomm with a flick of the thumb.  Turning back to you, he assumes a slightly less agitated demeanor.  Or is it simply a layer of wariness slipped over his irritation?  "Pardon me again for that."

You don't directly acknowledge the call.  You almost thought to reassure him somehow--but...damn it, something like that--unauthorized computer access, maybe even outright tampering...you know what Kylo Ren requires of you.  You hate how close it treads to that which you swore in the medic's oath to _never_ divulge.  Not to mention the fact that you have no idea what or _who_ might have caused it, and to what purpose.  No idea who you might be aiding or harming.

He may not be the easiest patient to deal with...not that _you_ are easy to deal with, you think to yourself...but you can't bring yourself to utter a false promise to Sandskimmer.  What you _do_ say is, "I _strongly_ recommend bed rest while the immunotriggers do their job.  As I mentioned earlier, it's critical that you don't deplete your body of the resources it needs to make them work properly.  If you absolutely can't take complete sick leave, medbay documentation for remote work can be arranged and I would advise you to take advantage of it.  In fact, if you can work through text chat, that would be best to reduce the throat irritation.  If you _do_ have to speak, gargle with warm saline solution afterwards."  Sandskimmer starts to raise an eyebrow at that, though he tries to school his expression into neutrality.  "It may be an ancient remedy," you note, "but it's proven to help, and the only side effect is the taste."

It's...a Dantooinian remedy.  But you can't afford to think about that.  Instead, you turn your attention to the final--and most unpleasant task left to complete, as much for your patient as for you: the phlegm sample.  You hand him a cup of water, another cup for the sample, give him the instructions, and point him towards the exam room sink.  Ugh.  All you can say to _that_ is that you're glad he succeeds at it the first time.  The sick officer shuts the lid as quick as he can and starts rinsing his mouth out with a desperation...

..that reminds you of _yourself_ , in the detention cell with those inhumanly disgusting rations.  Damn...now _that_ memory turns your stomach.

"That'll be enough," you tell Sandskimmer.  You unclip your scanner from your belt and use it to link the code on the glass to your patient.  "All I need now is for you to set it in that slot--"  You point to the wall.  Sandskimmer opens the slot, slides the cup in, and shuts it with a look that likely translates to 'good riddance.'  "The lab will handle the sequencing, and your prescription should be up within the hour.  Now there are a few things--"

This time the chime emanates from the comm unit in the wall.  Your stomach tightens.  Has there been some sort of emergency, or...wait, you'd almost swear--here?  Now?  "Excuse me."  You hit the button and announce yourself.

There's no mistaking the distorted, bass-shifted voice on the comm, that growls out your name.  Sandskimmer flinches-- _he_ knows too.  You then hear, " _Your presence is required in M-2359._ "  Dr. Zarander's office.

You straighten your shoulders, folding your hands behind your back.  Blast it...you can't let Sandskimmer see that you consider him at _all_ now that Kylo Ren is in the picture.  And that rankles.  Truth is, it would take you as much time to hand off your patient as it would to complete your work.  But...you can try logic.  And a _focus_ on that logic, that lays your mind as clear as you can to even a cursory reading.  "Is five minutes acceptable, Commander?  If not, I'll make arrangements..."  

" _Finish your business_ ," he curtly orders, and you feel a lessening of the tension in your shoulders.  " _I'll see you immediately after.  Ren out._ "

Your first impression of Lieutenant Commander Sandskimmer once the comm goes silent is of a man struggling to balance an impossible equation as he stares at the comm, your vestments, and your surroundings.  Dissonance at its finest.

Which you aren't exactly about to help with.  And the aggravating part is, this is the information your patient needs to hear the most.  "We're about done," you assure him.  "Just one thing to be mindful of.  It's very rare, but if after the immunotrigger treatment you find yourself severely fatigued, spiking a very high fever, or short of breath like you can't get enough air into your lungs no matter how fast or how hard you you try to breathe, call the emergency department _immediately_ , because that could mean your immune system is having a dangerous overreaction.  You'll get more detailed instructions from the lab, which will be to your left just before the exit."

"That's it?" the young officer asks.

You nod.  Just as Sandskimmer turns to make his escape, you make eye contact once more.  "Take care of yourself."

You're not sure the message got across.  But it was _something_ , you hope--less frigid than your environs, less stark than your garb.

As for you...you're _expected_.  You wonder--could this be about the dreams...no, nightmares, and the lost sleep that you're fairly sure you didn't experience alone?

You dart out of the exam room as quickly as you can, activate the autosterilize cycle, and as soon as you have confirmation it's complete, you make your way towards the office wing.  Even if Ren hadn't ordered you to a specific office, at _this_ proximity you could have just about zeroed in on him with your eyes closed.  There--M-2359--Dr. Rylkir Zarander.

You tap the door chime, and the door slides open without a word.  There stands a beleaguered-looking Dr. Zarander, behind his desk as if it were a battlement.  His eyes are fixed upon the robed figure facing him on the other side of the desk.  Then he turns to you.  His gaze slides back over to Kylo Ren.  Then to you again, as if wondering whether you've come to bail him out of his predicament, or if instead his problem has multiplied by two.

Then your eyes fix upon Kylo Ren, his features hidden behind the black and chrome mask formed into an eyeless, mouthless glare.  His head whips around at your arrival, and Dr. Zarander flinches.  So strange to see the two together: Zarander in plain sight and an invisible enigma to your mind, and Ren, devoid of visible humanity in his mask, yet to you a being perceived in a multitude of dimensions.

You simply _feel_ it when your eyes make contact with Commander Ren's through the opaqued visor, and your mind slips forward towards his--a tendril of thought sent forth, met by the same, pulling the tether between you just a bit tighter for that second.  And there it is, beneath the mask: fatigue, just as you expected, held at bay by a barely-controlled fire.  But towards you...no, you don't think you detect resentment.  Nothing aimed in your direction, anyway.  Actually...could it be that he's pleased, at least a little, to see you?  For one strange moment, you have to struggle to keep your expression still.  You dip your head in deference--but more than that, in confirmation of the silent greeting.  But here, with the eyes of others--should you do more?  Does Ren expect a salute?  Or a bow?

It seems you must have transmitted without realizing: Ren quickly sends, _Never bow to me._   

With that you lift your chin, square your shoulders, and enter the office.  "Commander Ren," you greet him, this time aloud.  Zarander's eyes widen a tad more, though you can see him fighting to hide the expression: it must be hard for him to imagine taking this place at this masked man's side with so little hesitation.  And the sound of your voice surprises you almost as much as it must Zarander, as it lilts upward on the last syllable.

Ren speaks your name through his mask's distortion filter, then continues in a level tone, " _Based on the status report I've just received from Dr. Zarander, I have decided to end your parole._ "

You can't find the words at first.  You just barely avoid cutting your eyes over to Dr. Zarander.  What sort of report could he have given--certainly not one governed by conscience, to judge from his uneasy glances at Kylo Ren.Still...even where you are, and who you serve, you can't help hoping that at least some of what he said for the sake of survival aligned with some form of reality, for beneath it all, you _do_ still give a damn.

"Thank you," you reply, forcing your words out with boldness, not the shaky whisper your voice--and even your mind--would have produced otherwise.  "That's excellent news."  

This represents greater freedom, yes, though true escape remains futile.  But to continue your service to the enemy, yet with fewer chains...just like your nightmare, all you can envision is the wounded, reproachful eyes of everyone you cared for and loved back home.

" _You will have free movement in permitted areas; the map has been uploaded to your datapad.  Also--_ "  Ren reaches down to pick up a small metallic cylinder sitting on Zarander's desk.  " _This clips to your belt; it formalizes your access.  It's keyed to your biosignature and will only activate on your person._ "  Dr. Zarander carries a similar cylinder, clipped into the pocket of his uniform, you've noticed--you'd wondered what that was.  It seems a bit cumbersome considering how small modern memory chips and transponders are.  Then it dawns on you: neither Kylo Ren nor General Hux carry these.  You suppose the purpose is less functional than it is symbolic--something given in such visible form can be taken away just as easily, and the upper echelons of the First Order don't want their people to forget it.

Ren hands you the the code cylinder, and you slide it into a loop of material on the left side of your belt, where it snaps into place with a _snick_.

" _You'll have no more security escort_ ," Ren adds, " _and the Stormtroopers have been notified of your change of status.  They'll also answer any questions you have about locating anything in the areas you're cleared for._ "  The Stormtroopers...you've treated a few of them by now, and damn...that's always an unnerving experience.  It's not that they've threatened you--if anything, they are some of the most disciplined in their conduct towards you, and the least likely to balk at your approach.  Rather, it's the sheer degree of conditioning they've clearly endured at the hands of the First Order.  You'd always heard the rumors...by now you know they're true.  You've even had to grant a Trooper permission to remove her helmet when she was sneezing uncontrollably in it and clearly miserable.

The very sight of them infuriated you on Dantooine.  But now...you see that they too are prisoners without chains.  Somehow it seems wrong to ask _anything_ of them when they don't have even _your_ internal freedom of the mind.  It's humanity without being allowed to _be human_.

" _With that done_ ," Commander Ren says, turning his hidden visage back towards Dr. Zarander, " _as you should have heard this morning, the_ Finalizer _will be entering battle in two days.  As part of that, I want_ her _engaged with the triage teams, whether your unit provides support for that during combat or not.  I require the further development of her skills in that area._ "

Combat?!  

Don't react, don't react...!

Whew...you avoid a look from Dr. Zarander, though you're pretty sure you got one from Kylo Ren--how could you _not_ , with the strength of your reaction?  You might be able to hide that from anyone else, but certainly not _him_.  

But you really had no idea.  You avoid the _Finalizer_ 's internal newsfeed as much as any of the other propaganda around here--you had no idea...and you never asked Ren either.  It's...much easier, not thinking about anything that goes on outside the confines of this ship.  Restricting your focus to the medbay, on something that makes _some_ warped kind of sense.  Combat...damn.  Against the New Republic, almost for sure.  And you're...you're...

Treating casualties.  It could be worse, you tell yourself.  

Ugh--indeed it could.  By all the stars in the galaxy, you hope you don't have to treat a _prisoner_.  You feel as if the scent of treason clings to your skin and they'd catch a whiff of it somehow.

"...could assign her to a spoke during future engagements," Dr. Zarander is saying, "but I...ah...propose orienting her here this time around.  If...if that suits you, sir."  You understand how Zarander feels.  _Why_ he feels it.  But with the sense emanating from Ren that tells you there is no threat of violence, it seems...surreal to you somehow.

" _That will do_ ," Commander Ren determines.  " _Familiarization with First Order methods--then in subsequent battles, test her in operating with leaner resources; her background will be conducive to it.  I expect your cooperation in all of this._ "

Dr. Zarander crosses his arms, pressing his lips together.  Then he forces himself to attention.  "Yes, Commander."

" _Very well_."  With that, Ren turns on his heel and marches out the door.  And you hear as clearly as if he was putting no distance between you at all: _Later_.

You have so many questions for him right now that his curt closing thought to you is almost a relief.  It's so hard not to acknowledge with a nod.  Or not to send a thought complex enough to distract yourself in front of Zarander.  Instead, a wordless sense of comprehension serves as your reply.

As for Dr. Zarander, you hardly know what to say to him as the door automatically swishes shut--but you can't let him see that.  You didn't ask for this situation any more than he did, but he can't be allowed to know that this is anything but _your_ desire, and Ren's.  "Doctor...if there is anything I can review now, I can go ahead and get started."  There.  At least show him you want to help.  Show him he might have said something true in his report to Ren.

"Well, then," Zarander says...but it's less of a prologue and more of a statement to break the silence.  He considers for a second.  "Your new permissions should come with more detailed alert procedures than what you had before.  Those would be good to read over.  You'll also see on your new map that even though we have one central medbay aboard the _Finalizer_ , the size of the ship requires us to have paramedics stationed in several emergency medposts, or 'spokes,' throughout the ship.  Ship's complement is over 82,000, so covering the entire population in an emergency is a lot more like managing emergency services for a reasonable-sized town than it is for a typical starship."  By your world's standards, you can't help thinking to yourself, that's pretty much a _city_.  "Farther from the main medbay, if there's an emergency, paramedics will deploy from the nearest spoke.  They'll bring the patient there, stabilize them, and if they need to be transported here, there are dedicated evac tubes that run straight to the medbay so combat and medical personnel aren't tripping over each other in the corridors.

"Your training will be here this time--the main hub.  I'll be coordinating with Commander Sorel to make sure you're included in the group of _our_ personnel that Emergency pulls into their area before the battle.  Lieutenant Garamon will be with you as well; she's done this plenty of times before."

"The alert procedures and the maps," you repeat.  "I'll be sure to spend as much time with those as I can off-shift."

Zarander nods.  "Will you forgive my intrusion for a question?"

"If it's not classified," you answer, "sure."

A bit of the tension runs out of the doctor's shoulders.  "What kind of experience are you...ah...starting from in this area?  So I know what to include when I brief Sorel."

This much focus on the past...you absolutely can't afford to cry.  Two months on--and you still want to.  There's time for that later.  Alone.  But not now.  "For the last two years in my village, I was the only medic, so I saw all types of cases, from mild all the way to life-threatening.  As far as disaster...trauma...I've been through a few natural disasters--storms, flooding, that kind of thing.  And...combat.  Once."

Steady...

"So you know the principles, and you've done it a few times...but all in-house, and by yourself," Zarander sums up.  You nod--fair enough.  "Since you haven't had to work with other staff, I'd recommend you devote particular attention to the functions of the personnel you'll be working with and the software support you'll be using.  There'll be a briefing for you tomorrow to give you a hands-on orientation while we're still out of combat, but you should find that helpful.  If I think of anything more before end of shift, I'll be sure to pass it along."

"I'll be sure to include that."

Zarander doesn't officially dismiss you--you're outside his command structure--but it's clear he means you to leave him to the work that just got dumped on him in a most unwelcome manner.  You turn to leave, but before you make it all the way to the door, the doctor clears his throat.  You turn back around.  "I told your commander that your openness to learn has been noticed," he says.  "Thought you'd want to know."

You allow yourself a little smile.  "I appreciate that, Doctor."

Zarander replies with an awkward, jerky nod, and sits back down at his desk.  With that, you make your retreat.

You catch a glimpse of ship's time on the chrono above the door to patient intake--it's about time for your midshift break.  You hate doing this, but you figure you'd better head over to the staff cafeteria and actually try to pay some attention to what the yammering propaganda channel that calls itself a newsfeed has to say.

You barely even notice, when you arrive at the cafeteria and make your way through the line, what exactly is on your tray.  Some kind of Eriaduan meat and vegetable combo you must have ordered on autopilot.  The scent hardly registers with you.  All of it holds about as much interest to you as eating tree bark.  Sleep deprivation has already wrecked your appetite and the news the _Finalizer_ is entering combat finished the job.

Still, you sit down--by yourself as usual, to spare anyone the awkwardness of wanting to get up and evade your approach but not daring to take the risk of offending one of Ren's people.  Or almost as bad, the awkwardness of having to make small talk.  You can already see staff from other parts of the medbay studiously avoiding eye contact with you and hushing their conversations.

"... _hopefully that defiant upstart will come to her senses,_ " the onscreen 'commentator'...propagandist, more like, is saying," _and realize these reckless demands are not only beyond her limited stature, but highly dangerous to her own people's interests.  The First Order, of course, stands with open arms should she see sense.  We'll be coming there eventually--why not reap the benefits now?_ "  
__  
"That's right," someone whispers from another table.  Lieutenant Thomlind...of course.  "They're not _all_ that stubborn--there's _got_ to be hope.  There's _got_ to be."  
_  
_ Thomlind's earnest tone almost pains you.  But far more, his words, the commentator's words, make you want to retch.  You've seen the 'benefits' of the First Order all right--repression, death, fire, and fear.  Fear that even your _patients_ have to live with hanging over them every day of their life.  And this is what people are supposed to _clamor_ for, like some sort of privilege?  True, the trade ships might run on time--but at the cost of everything _else_ that makes life worth living.

You never do catch exactly what the analyst was talking about as she turns to the camera with a well-rehearsed holostar smile that you'd swear had to be the result of extensive dental surgery.  No human is just _born_ like that.  People have asymmetries, variations in the skin--they aren't like carefully crafted tricks of three-dimensional light.

You start forcing some food down.  But it's not easy as the commentator starts up again.  " _In other news, word has just reached our official sources that Coruscant, in contrast,_ has _taken a sensible first step towards welcoming the return of its rightful government, by refusing to allow the reconstituted New Republic Senate to use their city as a seat of power after mass protests rocked the ecumenopolis.  While they continue sending a representative at this time to_ _this seditious criminal organization, this rebuke from the people of Coruscant heralds the first serious signs of a growing fracture between a people who remember the glory and safety of the Empire and regard the First Order favorably, and a government that is fundamentally out of touch as it chases unrealistic and_ dangerous _'ideals.'_ "

Damn.  The sad part is, even with the banthashit filter you apply to everything she says, you remember the news reports before your abduction from Dantooine--the debate over where to locate the reconstituted Senate after the Hosnian Genocide.  The trepidation expressed by so many worlds.  The Republic government promised there was no other Starkiller Base out there.  But they'd promised a lot over the years.  They'd spent so long covering the threat in sweet, sensitive terms as if trying to woo back a jilted lover, soothing their own people as if they were naive children crying out in fear of the shadows of tree branches cast on the wall by the dual moons, that many of the more suspicious-minded worlds like Dantooine had just about lost all trust, and demanded _action_.  That someone just acknowledge what had been happening to them for _years_ at the hands of the First Order, if you go all the way back to the stolen children.  

Even if the Senate would do one thing--just acknowledge the _truth_ \--it would be something.  This is real.  _Your hell_ is real.  For that unease to be spreading all the way to Coruscant...that's a _bad_ sign.  A _dangerous_ one.  Sure, the commentator's probably playing up the size of the protest.  But the best lies come with a core of truth.  And it would not at all surprise you for a world of one _trillion_ people to have serious reservations about the idea of exposing that many people to even the _possibility_ of another slaughter like Hosnian Prime.

" _Captain Nidia_ ," the commentator says as the camera pans to reveal a man sitting across the desk from her, " _I understand from our pre-broadcast briefing that this decision from the Coruscanti has relevance to our upcoming attack on the Corellian Shipyards.  Sir, could you please elaborate on that for our loyal viewers?_ "

Oh man.  Corellia.  _Corellia?  That's_ the target?  The First Order has the power to attack Corellia?  And that's where _you're_ headed?  Your heart sinks several decks below.

" _It would be my privilege_ ," the black-uniformed naval spokesman replies with a preternatural ease before the camera.  Then he glares.  " _I begin, of course, with the reminder to all loyal soldiers of the First Order that any transmission of this shipboard broadcast off of the_ Finalizer _is an act of treason and punishable by death_."  Then Nidia reverts to that absurdly personal, charming demeanor.  " _As we discussed on the morning news, the_ Finalizer _and_ Resurgent _will engage in a surgical strike on the Corellian Shipyards, and by doing so, deny the pretenders the ability to rebuild efficiently from their naval losses.  Our sources show that as a result of the demobilization of the 'Republic' military following the dissolution of the first Empire, their ability to rebuild from any losses of ships is already severely diminished.  Remaining military forces, not_ just _the terrorist irregulars, have been reduced by their own people to scrounging for parts in museums and boneyards like petty scavengers._ "

And the sad part is... _that's_ true too.  Dantooine's senators have been screaming about it for years, how the pathetic 'safety' forces left in service, not to mention the even _more_ ignored local planetary defense forces, have been left dangerously underpaid, undermanned, and underequipped to even do something as simple as keep the trade lanes clear.  All the regular people who actually _cared_ about doing their damned job, who would have given their lives to stop all of these atrocities...the Republic left them high and dry, too weak to drive a Star Destroyer from your system.  Or even just shoot down the troop transports... _something_ that might have changed fate.  

And the Resistance...this should _never_ have fallen on their shoulders when a free Republic existed to bear the burden!  They tried.  They tried--they were the _only ones_ who tried to stop the raid.  Who...gave a damn enough about the idea of lives being destroyed to actually fight for your sake.  Even in the devastating failure that brought you here...at least it was _something_ compared to a giant official _nothing_.

Blind idealism doesn't prevent genocide, it doesn't defend shipping lanes--and it sure as hell _didn't_ keep you safe on Dantooine.

" _Obviously the first advantage that gives us is the significant weakening of the Corellia System's once-formidable defenses.  But I_ did _promise to fill you in on how that ties to the recent shift in opinion on the Coruscanti street_ ," Captain Nidia reminds the audience with a poodoo-eating grin.  " _Now that the traitors' Senate has been denied yet another potential home, either they're going to have to settle for much meaner accommodations, or even resort to the defunct Rebel Alliance's old technique of keeping the Senate in a roaming fleet.  Not only will that extraordinary kind of backstep severely degrade the image of the New Republic as a viable force in the eyes of the people, and not only will it result in command and control problems for the illegitimate regime, we should keep in mind that a roaming target like that requires a significant defensive armada.  That's difficult enough for them to come by under_ current _conditions.  Couple that with taking one of their two major shipyards out of action--and they'll be forced to start cutting corners.  They'll have to make choices on whether to give up the fight against piracy and organized crime.  Do that and the discontent in the rimward worlds only spreads.  Or do they start ceding certain territories to the First Order as their remaining forces are spread too thin?  How will_ that _make them look?  And of course a roaming Senate is_ vulnerable _, and will only fall again when we pinpoint them.  Make no mistake, soldiers--the New Republic is crumbling and even their Resistance cannot hope to withstand this combination of external and internal forces_ _._ "

It's all you can do not to slam your water glass down on the table.  You _set_ it down though, and force yourself to release it.  The way your hand was clenching around it as Captain Nidia continued his spiel, you're almost afraid you could've shattered it in your silent rage.  Control.  Focus on your food.  Focus on the mechanical actions of eating.  You don't want to explain throwing a glass, especially in public, and _especially_ if your aim is good and your arm strong and you damage the screen too.  No matter how deep the primal satisfaction of the _smash_ would be.

But the sheer _fecklessness_ of the New Republic...it grated before, but now it _burns_ with the new intensity of anything that catches your bottled ire these days.  All the years of failed hopes and dreams, all the breathless refusals to see the grim reality for what it is...

A reality that, had they exercised some sense from the beginning, had they not been so caught up in some romantic notion of keeping all of their actions in the pure light of the stars, and done what they had to do to chase after the war criminals as they fled into the Unknown Regions and then bring every last remnant of Empire to its bloody _knees_ , and thenshow some _resolve_ to keep it up as long as it would have taken, even if it took a _century_ to finish the job...none of this had to happen.  None of this chaos.  Why, why, why did the Republic ever allow a bastion of tyranny like the First Order be _right_ about their incompetence?

Right?  Like Kylo Ren believes the First Order to be right?  You've heard his invective against the New Republic a few times, though something in you remarks that you've heard it nowhere near as often as the fervor that envelops his thoughts would lead you to expect.  What he had to say about the inexcusable chaos, the slide towards anarchy, all of it utter propaganda...except for the parts that are true.

You shudder at your line of thinking.  What you've seen about the Republic growing up on Dantooine, what _he_ sees...just strip away his allegiance to the Supreme Tyrant, and--

No.  You're not at all the same...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MUSIC:
> 
> The music selections for this section cover the first and second nightmares the Reader experienced.
> 
> Rig--"[Old Machines (Reaper Dubstep)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gCVI6mRxJJQ)": Yes, _Mass Effect_ fans...someone remixed the Reaper Horn into a sick piece of dubstep. For those of you not in the know...the "[Reaper Horn](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yD7SWX6EJMo)" is not just an awesome, intimidating sound effect. In-universe, it is capable of doing horrible things to a person's mind if the conditions are right...a process known as Indoctrination. And that's not the only reason this song, made 3 years before TFA, gives me the creeps..
> 
> Pink Floyd--"[On the Run (Remixed by Soul Machine)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p1bkrQ8sOzc)": I knew I specifically wanted a modern remix of this song, more intense than the original. What I did not bargain on, having already written the nightmare sequence this was for, was a certain sound effect actually being IN the song. Scared the pants off me when I heard it...perfect.
> 
> RED--["Confession (What's Inside My Head)"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=im0pAGCM-qs) (Captures the anger the propaganda at the end elicits...)  
>  
> 
> NOTES: I'll let you know hopefully when Part 11 comes out, what the acronym "PEBMAS" stands for (and it is an acronym, created by someone on the _Finalizer_ IT staff, for a certain form of operator error...
> 
> The New Republic's decision to disarm itself comes from some of the canon novels written about the time leading up to The Force Awakens. The repercussions post-TFA, however, are my own. Also, while I have not yet read Bloodline, some of the early indications I'm hearing so far suggests to me that I may well reject that book from Another Set of Eyes canon...the more I've kept writing, the more at peace I am with the fact that I am crafting an AU, and while I want to keep its spirit true to the movie despite the unusual plot, I may not accept everything from canon after all.
> 
>  
> 
> SCI/TECH NOTES (skip if bored ;) ): The symptoms you describe to Sandskimmer, should the immunotrigger treatment fail, are possible indications of a [cytokine storm](http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3294426/) [manifesting with acute respiratory distress syndrome](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Acute_respiratory_distress_syndrome). While the treatment method used by the First Order is currently fictional and I could be wrong about exactly what would happen if it went awry, it seemed reasonable to me that there were two main failure types that could occur. One, the immune system did not respond to the specific stimulation vigorously enough or fast enough, and the active infections in the patient went about their business or outright adapted. The second would be an overly vigorous response. Admittedly one path that could have taken would be an autoimmune reaction in which the body starts attacking friendly targets, but my thought was that the immunotrigger therapy, given that we're operating in a sci-fi setting, is made to be so targeted that it essentially teaches your immune system to go after the specific, _correct_ enemy, making this a less significant risk.
> 
> So for the purposes of the story, I opted for another path, in which an excessively vigorous immune system response to the infections result in an out-of-control and sometimes lethal reaction. Cytokine storms have been implicated, for example, in deaths from the Spanish Flu and other particularly ugly influenza strains, and were the reason these particular viruses were SO dangerous to young, healthy people with strong immune systems. It seemed logical that this reaction could be set off if the patient reacted particularly badly to the immune system stimulation delivered by the First Order. While I like to think (again, sci-fi universe!) that this risk has been addressed sufficiently enough to make this a routine treatment instead of something rare and experimental, it seems like something that serious should at least merit some sort of warning to the patient to allow quick action in case they are one of the rare unlucky ones. (Think of the warnings you get when you get your flu shot, about Guillan-Barré syndrome...a rare autoimmune reaction where the body goes after the nervous system. Rare, but dangerous enough to be mentioned.)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, guys...here's the answer to that acronym from Part 10. Tech support had a name for a very specific type of operator error, which was "PEBMAS."
> 
> Well, it's related to a common IT acronym in real life with several variations, one of the most popular being PEBKAC, or "Problem Exists Between Keyboard and Chair."
> 
> Let's just say if Commander Ren ever finds out what the "PEBMAS error" is, he is not going to be happy. And the Operations Support department had better hope it NEVER accidentally makes its way onto an official report, because it stands for "Problem Exists Between Mask and Saber." O_O

**Living Quarters M-1390  
Evening**

****There is no illusion tonight.

You can't say this surprises you--with news of the battle, you figure Commander Ren is even _more_ caught up in preparations than you are.  Preparations for...striking at the Republic.  For destruction.  For slaughter.  A queasy shudder runs through your body: from _this_ you are inseparable.

Tears gather in the corners of your eyes...the first time in weeks...and you wipe your eyes on the scratchy black sleeve of your overtunic, feeling the unevenness of the armorweave pleats beneath.  Should there be more tears?  _Why aren't_ there more?  You can feel it all the way to your bones, yet it just...sits there, the _wrongness_ of it all.  It just _is_.

You reach for the datapad again, looking to the clarity of medbay procedure to...what?  To numb you somehow?  You _already_ feel halfway numb right now--what could you possibly--

Movement.  Except it's nothing in the physical sense...rather a shifting of intentions.  This kind of thing has been with you all this time, but you _understand_ much better now what it is you're sensing when you feel it: this is Ren, padding about the periphery of your mind where the emotions float to the surface.  Focused caution tints his curiosity and his will to communicate.  Even as part of you still seethes in knowledge of what he's done--what he _will_ do...you can't bring yourself to hurl a round of speechless invective into his head.  He can sense the current well enough.  Just as you can.

With a soft, slow sigh, you set the datapad down on the end table and your gaze drifts out to some point beyond the opposite wall.  You hardly know _why_ even as your mind forms the reciprocal intent, and you send: _Commander?_

 _Yes_ , he acknowledges by force of habit: it's not like you could have mistaken the silent voice for anyone else.  _I take it you're preparing for your combat assignment._

 _Combat_ assignment.  You're more grateful than ever that Kylo Ren never bothers with farcical pleasantries in your conversations, answerable only by a lie that would insult the intelligence of _both_ of you.  You nod, a gesture for the eyes of no one.  _Since the end of my shift_ , you reply.  _I've been working through the material Dr. Zarander gave me.  Other than calisthenics, I've spent the entire evening studying._

A brief glimmer of approval floats through your awareness at the mention of your physical conditioning.  It was _your_ idea, actually--in your first week of training it occurred to you that for all the immersiveness of Ren's illusion, aside perhaps from a somewhat elevated heart rate, the one thing his unorthodox methods cannot do is prepare your muscles and ligaments for the demand you might place on them in reality if it came down to it.  Worse, even with all Ren does to match the conditions of the illusion to reality, you might even strain or tear something in your moment of peril trying to execute a maneuver for which you've developed the mental instinct but not the required physicality.  With your inexperience, an injury Ren could easily shrug off could prove deadly for you.  You dreaded at first to point out the flaw in Ren's methods to his face.  But to your surprise, after an initial flare of aggravation as much because you almost _didn't_ bring it up as the fact that you _did_...he commended you, and offered his own input on what might be the most use to you, that you can pull off in a confined space.

 _I've felt your focus tonight_ , Ren notes.

 _Such as it's been the last several minutes_.  The thought slips out unbidden--bitter, yes, but it's not as if it's somehow news to Ren.  He had to have noticed.  When did it become a _given_ , that this man holds a key to your mind ( _and you to his_ )?

 _Do you have something particular to tell me?_   You assent without words.   _Go on._  
  
_It was a comm call one of my patients had in front of me_ , you confess.  You don't tell Commander Ren what your patient was in the medbay for, or anything at all that Sandskimmer discussed with _you_ rather than his subordinate.  That doesn't make it feel much better to recount _anything_ said within the confines of your exam room.  Still, you tell it anyway--the mystery of the unauthorized access--and you feel Ren's rapt attention, analyzing every detail of the thoughts you send.  

Even with most of your mind focused on transmitting to Ren, another part of you observes how much more freely your response flows now, than anything you said aloud today.  When did this amalgam of thoughts and intents come to feel like the most proper way for you and Kylo Ren to communicate?  This morning, after what had to be weeks without a single one of your words to each other passing between your lips, you had to _remind yourself_  to talk.  
_  
_ As soon as you cease sending, Ren immediately replies, _You were right to bring this to me._   Which doesn't exactly reassure you, especially as his tone turns caustic.  ___That doesn't just___ happen _ _ _!__ Apparently _someone _decided that a potentially serious security breach didn't need to be escalated to the highest levels of leadership--right on the eve of battle!_ _I_ do wonder _if Hux is even aware of this, or if he's under the false impression that this is somehow 'not my concern'!_   Ren's focus narrows upon you again, at the same time as an unsettlingly familiar, forceful fixation on _holding still_ at all costs radiates forth from him, strong enough that you feel your own muscles snap taut in response.  _Who is his supervisor?_

 __A chill runs through you: chaos in the First Order's ranks should be a good thing for the Republic, right?  But what kind?  And are you condemning Sandskimmer?  Or his commanding officer?  Should that matter to you like it seems to?  Hell, maybe you should be concerned about more than just your patient.  What if this backfires on _you_ somehow?  But...you did see the name.  There's no way to convince Ren, even if you were sure that were the right move, that you didn't.  _Phinestra Gage_ , you reluctantly send.  _She's a commander over Information Systems Development on the_ Finalizer _.  What are you going to do?_

You want to kick yourself as soon as it's out--he surely won't tell you that, and worse, he might take umbrage...wait.  It simmers--but it doesn't boil over on you.  _For the moment..._ _nothing at all.  I will_ trust _\--_ He spits the word like poison.  _\--that it's handled through the military chain of command.  But make no mistake, I intend to_ watch _, to see exactly_ when _someone sees fit to mention this little bit of misplaced code.  I've got a feeling that will prove most enlightening.  Besides_ , he drily adds, _it would be extremely poor form to say something to implicate one of my own people_.

You still don't know how to respond sometimes--even in thought--when Ren takes that strange tone with you, the one that resembles an absurdly gentle teasing more than anything.  What the hell do you do?  Agree with him?  Sarcastically thank him for his consideration?  Don't acknowledge it at all?  Today you take the final route lest your mood go from numb back to combustible.  Instead you turn your focus to the battle ahead.  _I was wondering something_ , you send, _but I'm not sure if I'm supposed to ask this--_

 _I can't determine that if you_ don't _ask_ , Ren retorts with a flash of frustration.

Well, technically he _could_.  Very much so.  It's rather that he... _isn't._

 _I heard it's the shipyards being hit.  Is there going to be a troop landing on the planet?_   It's not just your morbid curiosity at work.  It'll also give you a better idea what type of casualties to expect.  Maybe even how many.

 _Not at this time--the sole objective is the shipyards._ _There may be boarding actions.  That's it_ , Ren thinks in a rapid-fire staccato that pushes you away from chasing that line of questioning any further...but not a snarled rebuke to perceived insubordination.  Instead, you're barraged with a morass of...what?  Anger?  Anguish?  Resolve-- _retreat_.  A delicate reach to the outskirts of his mind--watch out, tread carefully, don't pry!--returns with whispers that this strike on the Corellian system  _means_ something to him, something all knotted up at the core far deeper than you dare to go.

Even though you too very likely _could_.

 _Boarding actions--to take the shipyards?  Or the Corellians, trying to board_ us _?_   There aren't even words for how messed up it is-- _us_.

 _You are_ not _to share this_ , Commander Ren warns, _but Stormtrooper strike teams may be sent.  But ultimately the shipyards will be destroyed once we take what's of value._ You _don't_ want to ask him what qualifies as 'of value.'  Not one possibility sounds good.  _The Corellians refused to cooperate with us as certain others did.  The 'Republic'--_ they _need the shipyards._ We  _have enough sources under our control to operate well without them._ They _chose weakness--they do not._

Oh, man.  Those rumors on the news that the Kuat Drive Yards, incensed at the loss of their lucrative Imperial defense contracts when the New Republic decided to demilitarize instead of continuing the deal, had seized on the First Order's promise of steady work...they're _true_ , almost certainly.  Right in the Core Worlds, those traitors, right under the Republic's nose, they built a damned _fleet_ and got away unpunished!  Hell, maybe they're _still_ cranking out Star Destroyers with impunity!  And what's to stop them, toothless complaints from the Senate about how badly they've behaved?  No, we're talking about a First Order with enough materials, manpower, and industrial might out in the Unknown Regions to literally gut and mechanize an entire planet within your lifetime...as in, just short of thirty years, and probably less, depending on when they actually got a start on the thing.  Surely shipbuilding must be a paltry feat compared to a project that even puts the Death Stars to shame!

The Empire was _beaten_.  None of that had to happen.  Yet the New Republic... _they...chose...weakness_.  In the cold facts, though not his atrocious response--it sickens you how _right_ Kylo Ren is.

You yank your mind away from that line lest Ren overhear.  You've got enough other unpleasantries to choose from.  _Do you think_ you'll _go?_

 _It's possible_ , Ren bluntly states.  It stabs like an icepick into your gut and you shudder.  You don't even have to worry about some hypothetical Corellian boarding party and what _they_ might do if they catch a glimpse of the enemy whose vestments you inhabit.  Or the damage you might do them simply by _seeing_ them.  Even your unknown foe might not have to take advantage of the chaos of a boarding to stealthily put you down, to see your demise.  For if Ren enters combat...

... _we_ could die.

A low moan escapes you.  Please let that not have transmitted to Ren somehow...!

 _Something_ did.  The not-self within you radiates astonishment, and swells...not to swallow your consciousness, but the presence _itself_ strengthens.  Then Ren's response, low and legato:  _You truly didn't know_...any _of it._

You shake your head; he must surely feel it.   _I haven't exactly been following the news._   You narrowly avoid the word 'propaganda.'  You _don't_ avoid the acid that drips from your mind's voice.

 _It's_ very _fortunate Zarander didn't notice anything!_  Ren scolds you.   _I sensed no evidence.  But you would have been expected to know at_ least _when the rest of your shift found out.  You ran a grave risk there!_

Shit, are you supposed to _apologize_ for not stuffing yourself on that mindless, laserbrained pablum all the time?  Or any of the time at all?  True, he has a point and you know it: a supposed convert like you shouldn't be running from the First Order's 'news.'  But still, it rankles.   _I'm sorry for the inconvenience_ , you archly reply.

 _Thankfully there was none_ , Ren reiterates--which is as close as you're going to get to 'no harm, no foul' out of him, with a massive side order of 'don't _ever_ do that again.'  Neither of you is backing down.  But so be it...what's coming the day after tomorrow takes precedence.  You're both forced to admit that truth.

There might be a way to gain some kind of clue as to _when_ it might behoove you to actually pay attention to the propaganda machine, though.  Maybe there's some kind of tell--something in the rhythm of shipboard activities, or maybe even...another source.  You ask, _Commander...when_ did _you find out?_  
  
The answer dawns in your head with such sudden clarity that you find yourself sending in near unison with Kylo Ren: _Two days ago._

The worsened sleeplessness and intertwined nightmares--they're connected to the battle somehow...you _feel_ it's true even though something in you resists the revelation.  How could that _be_ , all he's done, all he's got to be long inured to by now--it confuses, it contradicts...but it doesn't lie.  _I knew something had happened_ , you admit, surprised at the deep-seated ache that colors the tone of your thoughts.  _The way things have felt lately.  But I didn't think to look into it--to_ pry _.  It's bad enough that...well..._   You release another long sigh, wringing your fingers.  Do you dare mention it?  If you do...does he even _remember_?  Hard to say--but it seemed to you that _something_ lingered.   _Last night_ , you send.  _The dream...I...I didn't mean to--_

 _I know the difference between a dream and a vision_ , Kylo Ren replies, the low, pensive tone this time belying the chiding words.  _Or an illusion.  And I know that the mind shatters in dreams...that there is no real control, even if there's something_ like _consciousness.  You don't have to explain that to me.  I know._ There are no further words forthcoming.  Yet you intuit from the silence the memory shared. And more. You don’t know what...but his words...they bore deep, deep into your soul, and at last, tears spring to the corners of your eyes. You force them back...but at your core, they’re still there. And this, you both know.

And the _relief_ that washes over you--how is it this can mean something _other_ to you than just a reprieve from another lecture, or more?  But then you _knew_ , didn't you?  That if the interlocked dreams would've brought you condemnation, or a tornadic whirl of pique, it would have happened long before now.  And however nervous you are now, it wasn't terror when you awoke.  Well...the nightmares brought fear with them--but _after_ it registered what was going on, where you were, what settled on your psyche like a cold and untimely morning fog was...guilt.  Damn it, how could you feel any sense of _shame_ before _Kylo Ren_?  Shouldn't you be celebrating that he got what he damned well deserved for this thing he himself brought upon you?  Yet you didn't--you _don't_ feel anything like that at all.  You... _can't_ , even when for a fleeting instant, you try.  Even the candle on your irritation from a minute so has blown right out.

In two days...the battle.  You steal a quick glance at ship's time.  It's getting close to time to challenge your _daily_ nemesis: sleep.  _I guess that's all I have for now_ , you send.  _Dr. Zarander is supposed to show me more at the medbay tomorrow, to start pulling together some of these things I've read_.

 _Very well, then_ , the commander of the Knights of Ren replies.  _You won't be hearing from me until after the fight's concluded._   _We have work to do._

 __With that you sense the withdrawal of Ren's direct focus.  Oh, he's still _there_ \-- _that_ never changes (do you know what it would feel like anymore if it did?), but the conversation is clearly over.

 _We_ have work to do.

Even released from the discussion, you find yourself still frozen motionless on the couch.

So there it is--one burden somewhat lightened.  But in the maddening way of all that has come since the interrogation, another grows heavier in its place like a malfunctioning repulsor doing the exact reverse of what it ought to.  If Commander Ren leads a strike team...your survival will be contingent on his success against his enemies.  Against the Republic.   _Your_ people, whatever their...weakness.  And however weak, however many times they've frustrated you, disappointed you, and _let you down_ , they still _are_ your people.  Yet what _you're_ doing...that probably negates what _you_ are to _them_.  Too far gone to save--oh, why does that perturb you so?  They _need to_ keep their distance from you for their sake!

And then...the idea of your death, even a necessary death, engendered completely out of your control, hell, completely _outside your own body_...what would that even _be_ like?  Like yanking your battery right out of its socket--the mercy of an instant collapse into blackness?  Will your lungs and heart seize with the desperate, imposed arrhythmia of someone else's mortal throes, leaving you to drown in the open air in ghastly awareness of the oncoming end?  Or will pain like lightning radiate from the center of your nervous system through to the tiniest dendrite, ravaging everything in its path including the part that calls itself _I_ , casting the final resolution interminable rotted years away?

Why, oh why does the spark of life have to be so _strong_ in you?  If there's a way out, then it's shrouded in the darkness.  Let there be a way.  Please let there be a way.

You force yourself into motion, mechanical though it may be.  Get off the couch--get yourself ready for sleep.  It may amount to nothing...but the ritual must be observed, and your body, at least, is palpably draining now that the mental conversation with Kylo Ren has ended.

You work your way out of each layer you wear...boots, overtunic, armorweave coat, undertunic with armorweave sleeves, and leggings...and from there into a hot shower to soothe your aching muscles if not a bit of your soul.  Once done and into your pajamas--they hang so much lighter on you than your vestments, but the thought nags at you more than you'd like that you've shed your armor--you head back to the tiny 'kitchen' of sorts, pull out a teacup and a sachet with an herbal blend, and turn the water at the sink as hot as it goes.  

After a few minutes for the tea to steep, you draw the scent in...one...two...three breaths, letting the gentle herbal aroma seep through you.  Then you sip slowly away at it, hoping its relaxing properties will tip the balance between a third night in a row of distorted sleeplessness and something resembling restful.  Even an awakening or two--the kind you can recover from and sneak back to sleep--would be a blessed improvement.

Finally...you're tucking yourself into the covers, too weary to reopen your eyes.  Not that it would change much if you did, for all but the two minuscule emergency lights are out.  Through time indeterminate, you pass through the storm--it passes through you--and eventually...the dark.

 

_...you wander through empty corridors in spit-polished black and gunmetal grey--towards what?  A lesson in healing?  A lesson in killing?  You don't know.  All you know is that your life depends on your grade on the final exam._

_You continue down the sun-forsaken path, impelled less by what knowledge you have of these hallways and decks, and more by the silent magnetism that permeates the air.  Ahead, to the left, a doorway--closed, it seems...except somehow, between the instant when your eyes dart to the control panel and when you look back, the door is suddenly_ open _.  Not a sound--not a single movement...what was before, simply is_ not _.  And for some reason, this seems like how it ought to be.  You step forward into--_

_Darkness._

_Not_ complete _darkness--emergency lights flicker pitifully like the twitches of a heart seized in terminal ventricular fibrillation, leaving you just enough light to discern through the shadows that the corridor has_ changed _.  This isn't the_ Finalizer _, not anymore--this...is cramped.  Burrow-like.  Ancient.  Weathered and ravaged in every way imaginable, and why_ _\--_ why _does it tear at your insides to behold this sepulchral ruin?  Why do your eyes sting and your chest tighten so?  There's something here, there's something here, familiar and absolutely foreign all at once..._

 _It creaks and moans and rattles, every footfall echoing in frigid, desiccated air and threatening to rip an anguished lamentation from you.  How--how did this happen, how_ could _this happen...?_

 _You freeze motionless.  Suddenly you_ know _what you must do.  Breaking into a sprint, you run a tight ring, which spits you out into the wreckage of who knows how many ransacked crates and pallets, strewn about the cramped and shadowed room with chaotic abandon.  You push and scratch and claw your way through the mess, fighting towards a goal unknown except that_ that is where you must be _._

 _You're almost there.  You pause once again, hold your breath.  Something else groans, something else creaks, just a ways on the other side of the wall.  You're not alone.  No...don't let it stop you from your goal.  In fact--this is how it_ has _to be, this is the only chance, everything in time.  There are panels on the far wall.  They need your attention--stat!  There's not much time, the window is closing...!  You have to find the code--you don't know how, there's no other way!  Finally your hand balls into a fist...the odds are abysmal but still you have to try._ Careful _, something whispers,_ be careful, remember the right way.   _You draw your fist back, then deliver the desperate strike to the terribly dimmed instruments, like a precordial thump.  Start, damn it, start!_

_Overhead lights flicker, something rattles through the ventilation ducts for just a fleeting second--only to gutter away again, leaving the sickly emergency lights flickering futilely away with cruel mockery on the residuals of life past, doomed to soon fade forever._ __

_A bestial roar of enraged defiance--denial!--rips through the air.  Not here--but not far at all...just ahead, to the right, it seems.  Something clatters--_ smashes _\--over and over, all set to the awful, unending howl that will_ never _be fully spent.  You should feel fear, but your heart finds none.  The world distorts and thins around you--the scream still reverberates, fainter now, twisting into a keening wail as your eyes burn and a shriek of your own tears from your throat..._

__\--you wake, your hands latched like rending claws to your pillow.  The weeping wracks your entire frame until you come to your senses, but even as you catch your breath and cease your outward tears, they echo on and on within your soul until all this night's sorrow is spent and exhaustion takes you again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Music**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Because of how short a few of these pieces is, there are three instead of the usual one or two. All are instrumentals, which...well, it fits, doesn't it? ;-)
> 
> Mogwai--"[I Know You Are But What Am I](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KiQRwNz5wGI)": This is one of the best musical depictions of an emotionally numb, grieved state that I've ever heard, vacillating between moments of greater life, and back into numbness. And the title just seems apropos as well given the way the conversation flows.
> 
> If I had a choice in it, I'd crossfade these two short tracks into a single one for the dream sequence:
> 
> Tool--"[Mantra](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4Q_tkTzWL3M)"  
> Underoath--"[Reversal](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DdkO5wdagZ8)"


	12. Chapter 12

**Aboard the Star Destroyer _Finalizer_ , Medbay  
Two months after the Raid on Dantooine**

It starts before the battle even begins.

You barely even have time to make the transfer up to the Emergency deck and check in with Commander Sorel.  Barely enough time to deal with the first of the sidelong glances, the nervous stares that...well, you would've said a lifetime ago that you could _feel_ their eyes upon you.  That was before you knew what it was like to meet Kylo Ren's gaze through that inscrutable mask of his, your eyes guided by something far deeper than what they could see.  Still, the nervous set to the others' body language is enough to make the hair on the back of your neck stand up--it's far more pronounced than you've been used to seeing for the last few weeks or so.

Nurse Garamon, one of the other temporary transfers from your area, hangs back for a minute to speak a bit more with Dr. Sorel.  No one else approaches you, so you start calibrating your instruments as their voices drop to a whisper.  But you watch out the corner of your eye, as Commander Ren has admonished you to do.  To survey the room.  The people in it.  To map it all, how everything flows and interacts, as much as your eyes can tell you.  You can't afford to tune out.  To drift out of touch, where someone might take advantage of your lapse.

There are three main entries to the Emergency section.  First is the wide, transparent front entrance to the rest of the deck.  The second is the lifts from the outpatient and urgent care decks.  You've seen that used once--not on one of _your_ patients, but on an enlisted crewman who went into anaphylactic shock.  You'd been walking down the hall, overheard everything, and stepped in to comm the Emergency deck so Zarander could focus all his energy on rushing him to the lift, and keeping his patient breathing until the epinephrine shot worked.  The last entrances, opposite the intra-medbay lifts, are the transport tubes that bring patients in from the 'spoke' aid stations scattered throughout the gargantuan ship.  You eye these carefully...you've got a feeling those will see a lot of activity today.

Then you see Sorel's brow furrow and you refocus your covert attention on her and Nurse Garamon.  She nods several times as she listens intently to whatever the other woman has to say.  You wish you could hear what they were saying.  It doesn't matter what you _look_ like to the world--that kind of whispering still makes you _feel_ about two inches tall.  And you can never show it out here.

Finally Commander Sorel heads back your way with the redheaded Lieutenant Garamon in tow.  Stopping just outside arm's length, Sorel calls everyone in the Emergency department's intake area to attention.  "There's not much time, so I'll just get right to it.  Welcome to the personnel loaned to us for today by Dr. Zarander..."  Sorel pauses--here it comes.  It falls out of her mouth like a dreadful weight.  "And Kylo Ren."  Everything freezes.  Even the sound of breathing falls to nearly nothing--it's not hard to guess everyone's contemplating just how much that statement _does not compute in any logical way._  
  
Hell, part of _you_ still finds it inexplicable.

You know a few of these new faces from the medbay cafeteria, but until now, they've been able to compartmentalize you--the quasi-Knight--as something they didn't have to deal with in _their_ reality...thank goodness.  Until now.

You offer Sorel a nod at her acknowledgment of Commander Ren.  It's the only thing you _can_ do with all eyes on you.

"Everyone take your stations."  The crowd of medics breaks up as quickly as it formed, except for you--you haven't received an assignment.  Garamon stays behind as well, though.  Sorel regards you with thinly-disguised trepidation: her eyes are more on Garamon than you when she says, "The lieutenant here has volunteered to work as your partner on the triage team.  Based on her familiarity with your...role and background--"  Translation: her knowledge of what you do and don't know--and her ability to work with you without being scared completely shitless.  "I accepted that offer..."

You offer Sorel another nod, sparing her the awkwardness of figuring out how to address you, given that you technically outrank her.  That she cannot give you orders even though you _both_ know that you need direction.  "I can do that, Doctor," you confirm.

"Then it's settled," she replies, casting a look at Garamon that you don't have to be able to read her mind to comprehend: thank you for handling Ren's miniature terror.  "Expected time to drop out of hyperspace is--"

Dr. Sorel doesn't even have time to finish.  _Something_ in you tells you there's still time before the battle is truly joined...but you wouldn't know it from the cacophony hurtling towards you from the main hall.

Some things don't change, whether at home or here in captivity--the urgent shouts, the desperate terror in the patient's eyes and those of the crewmates carrying him in...you recognize them much too well.

And it truly doesn't matter where you are.  You can't help responding the same way as you would have before.

You're assessing the patient from head to toe even before an assignment is made.  Male, mid-twenties--they're so _young_ , so many of the men and women of the First Order--he has burns across just about every bit of exposed skin...hands...face...neck...you can even see where his uniform tunic has burned across his chest...and the _easier_ parts for you to behold are the ones where the fabric has burned _off_ instead of _onto_ his wounds.  You can't believe he hasn't blacked out yet from the shock to his system.

"What _happened_?" calls Garamon from her place by your side.

That brings the eyes of the patient's compatriots your way.  You see them gulp, eyes flared wide.  You reach forward.  "We'll get him to the help he needs," you say.  "This way."

With the help of the two men flanking the burn patient, you and Garamon help him onto the exam table.  Garamon asks the questions, and you take down the information on your datapad while she hooks up an intravenous line: Petty Officer Sen-Deso Taverel, age 23, burns across approximately 25 percent of the body--fluid resuscitation underway begun at 0920 hours--burns occurred while prepping a turbolaser as a result of its thorilide charge crystal overloading and detonating...

Garamon taps her comm button as soon as you hit 'complete.'  "Burn unit--one patient incoming from a thorilide fire, condition critical.  Data's been transmitted."  She looks to you.  "Their nurses will be in place to receive him in under two minutes; the best staging location is near Lift 3."

You nod.  "Understood."  Is it you, or even in the horror of what's happened to him, does his burned visage slacken just a bit at the thought of being transferred _away from you_?  Damn, how your heart aches for him...not just for what he has suffered, but for what you seem to him...

The gurney's shock-resistant repulsorlifts spring to life at a touch, and you smoothly push your patient towards the transfer lift as Garamon keeps a sharp eye on his vitals.  Within seconds of your arrival, nurses from the burn unit arrive on Lift 3--thankfully too focused on Taverel's condition to really take notice of anything else amiss, such as yourself--and you complete the transfer.

That is the first.  There will be many more.

And your first warning of _that_ is a blaring klaxon followed by a strident announcement over the PA system that makes you shudder as soon as you hear the voice, though you fight to suppress it: it's General Hux.  " _All personnel to combat stations!  This is not a drill.  Repeat--all personnel to combat stations.  To the glory of the First Order!_ "

Everyone in the room who is not directly engaged in that very second in attending to a patient pumps one clenched fist in the air in a violent salute--yourself included--though you swear against it in your heart as fervently as you can without...you hope...broadcasting your heresy to Kylo Ren.  

Within a minute comes a shudder through the vast Star Destroyer that you've come to recognize as dropping out of hyperdrive.  You aren't the only one to tense up as the ship stabilizes--here in the medbay...or elsewhere, preparing to orchestrate his own portion of the chaos.  And with that...it begins.

 

The ship rocks again--barely perceptible here near the center of the enormous vessel, but you _know_ what it is without having ever felt it in your life: incoming fire slamming into the shields.  The shipyard's defenders, perhaps, trying their best to fend off the terrible ship you inhabit.

Your current patient is one of the lucky ones: her awful nausea is nothing more than a bad case of space sickness brought on by the intermittent jolting of the ship, which is far more noticeable in the outer sections of the Star Destroyer, apparently, than the inward sections.  You've just administered her injection and found her a place to sit and stabilize when suddenly you realize...

 _It's time_.

There is no voice in your head--no words.  Not like that, anyway.  But there _is_ something that hovers at the edges of your awareness.  Something that you cannot deny.

Ren had said you wouldn't hear from him until the battle had ended.  And it's true; he hasn't thought a word to you since.  But as the sense of imminence grows in the _other_ within you, you know.  You _know_.  Kylo Ren is deploying.  He goes to wield his Force against that of death.  And through his eyes and into your soul...you too must meet its stare.  And fervently hope that if you--from kilometers away--meet your end with him, that your 'colleagues' of the First Order will triage you one way alone: termination expectant.

Yet just as it did last night, your heart rebels against this dread possibility.  You're not ready to meet your end--there _has_ to be something to live for, some small hope even if your eyes aren't enough to see it.  You can't wish Commander Ren success in his objectives.  But there is one thing you find you _can_ allow yourself to think.  Perhaps this is treason enough.  That still doesn't stop it from slipping out from your mind and across the illusory distance to his.  It doesn't stop it from meaning something _real_ to you as you send: _Come back._

That's all it is--not a plea, not a sign of endorsement or blessing, just...don't die.  Yet for just a second after, a faint warmth radiates from the center of your chest.  You draw in a slow, deep breath through your nose, to keep yourself from...a smile.  Then the feeling abruptly freezes as if interred in carbonite, heralded by a shiver you cannot resist.

You force yourself back into your world as best as you can: he to his battlefield, and you to yours.

That proves easier said than done.  A few tense minutes pass, when suddenly--

 _The shuttle jolts violently the instant the balance of gravity suddenly_ shifts _system-wide, sending a careless TIE pilot careening into the Corellian attack fighter she'd been pursuing, and turning both into an instant suicidal fireball that slams the shuttle with a second concussion wave.  Gloved fingers claw into the shuttle pilot's headrest and the Force submits to the demand to grant stability enough to keep standing.  The momentary jolt of fear--an adrenaline spike, the_ omnipresence _echoes back--subsides only to be replaced by something far colder.  The dread that crawls within each vein, feeding and breeding where the blood is weak and depleted--_

 _Enough,_ enough _, this is not_ her _world, this is the war of the patriotic will, though even with the reaffirmation of all that devotion, that other world never quite recedes.  Never will.  Not even--and_ especially _not now, it seems.  Will_ that _fact bring about the end one way or the other, if it can't be hidden away even in the heat of the battle?_

 __Your fingers claw into an empty bed.  Oh, man--you're having _visions_ \--you're seeing through his eyes...here, now!

Thank goodness, while Nurse Garamon _is_ watching you, she's not looking at you _too_ much askance.  "That was a big one," she remarks of the pressure wave that just impacted the _Finalizer_ 's hull.  "Felt like a little more than just getting shot at."

It _was_ more, you want to tell Garamon.  You can _sense_ it--even now, the knowledge hasn't stopped flowing.  You _have_ to bring yourself back somehow, enough that no one will ever begin to suspect what's going on inside your head.  __

_Short of touch_ , Commander Ren told you during one of his lessons in the illusion, _your eyes will be your strongest aid in rooting yourself back in the world around you.  Use the details to draw yourself into the moment._

You focus on Garamon's features, even as the images and sounds continue to come.  At least now, it's easier to distinguish what's real-- _your_ real--from what emanates from the embattled mind of Kylo Ren.  But it still emanates.  
_  
__Now.  The interdictor--the_ third _ship known until now only to the Supreme Leader himself and the Two--there was the plan, the one agreed to by all during the final briefing, but will this be another Trial, to watch this time as the gravity-bending ship enters orbit of Corellia and--_ no!  _"_ The interdictor--what's its position?"  _Upon this reply_ everything _might rest._

Oh, _no,_ you think to yourself in the blink of an eye--an _interdictor_ \--they brought a third ship, one of the ones capable of generating immense, planetary-sized gravity wells and yanking ships straight out of hyperspace.  One of the most terrifying weapons in the old Empire's arsenal, short of the Death Star.  Or now...the vanquished Starkiller Base.  With an interdictor, the First Order attack force can keep evacuation ships from jumping out of the system, and prematurely yank any would-be rescuers _into_ the system before they reach the standard jump point just outside Corellia's gravity well, forcing them to traverse a gauntlet of withering blaster fire all the way in.  And there are far _worse_ theories on what such a ship could do if employed in a more unconventional way...

"Could well be more than incoming fire," you lie to Nurse Garamon--a lie because you _know_ the truth: that this is no possibility.  It is the dreadful _reality_.  "Hard to say," you embellish.  "This is my first time in battle topside."

Garamon, however, takes you at your word with a brisk nod and turns back to prepping the area for whoever's next to enter the medbay.

_The pilot gulps, and consults the readout.  "I'm picking up the interdictor at the system jump point, fifteen light seconds past Corellia edgeward, plus thirty-five degrees elevation to orbital plane."_

_Translating the coordinates onto a mental map of the inner Corellian system--it's absolutely effortless; it just_ happens _.  And judging by that position...ah...as agreed to, then.  No_ course deviations. _A small amount of tension bleeds from hunched shoulders, but none from the grip.  "_ What about the gravitational effects on the shipyards?"

_"Within tolerance for docking, sir."_

_And if this is so for the orbital shipyards--so too below._

It won't be long now--Ren is going to attack.  Whatever it is he's seeking aboard the shipyards, whatever it is he deemed two nights ago to be _of value_ , there's no doubt in your mind that he'll stop at nothing to take it.  What will that _mean_?

Again you force yourself back into the place you know as _your_ real.  Your business, you remind yourself, is to _save_ lives.  You can't let whatever is going on outside the _Finalizer_ distract you from that.  No matter how tall an order that may be.

And the medbay doors swish open once again--get ready: there's another patient on the way.

__

__The visions...they weave themselves in and out of your thoughts like serpents through the underbrush.  How is it even possible--even with the instructions Commander Ren gave you, it doesn't make any logical _sense_ : how you can make his words reality, how your brain can manage this insane sort of parallel processing without descent into schizophrenia.  

Yet somehow-- _the Force, always the Force_ \--you manage to push it away as long as there's enough work to occupy your hands and focus your consciousness.  As long as there's a patient before you, as long as someone's speaking to you, you're fully there in the medbay.  There doing what you're meant to do, even if in completely the wrong place and time.

It's the lulls, the moments of stillness and relative silence, when the _being_ of Kylo Ren at war sears across your mind in its full intensity and all you can do is hold yourself still.  Don't breathe too fast.  Don't jump from the shock.  Don't move, don't say a _word..._

_Scorch marks adorn the hangar walls like the scrawled signature of a mad artist, immediately apparent even in these dimmed lights.  Sprawled on the deck beneath some of these hallmarks of destructive energy--mostly shipyard employees, from the looks of it, civilians someone tried to teach how to hold a blaster.  A task for which they'd had nowhere near enough time--don't look at that anymore!  There are a few armored Corellian regulars in the mix too--might have even gotten in a shot or two before they died...and there's also one of the Troopers from the first wave, right arm dangling uselessly as if it were the dead polymer appendage of a broken action figure._

_No New Republic troops, of course.  Why would they magically muster up some conviction_ now _, when their awakening only comes past the point of no return, and they--_ just rings around the star now, rings of rock and steel once the years pass and they assume the familiar formation-- _have seen the incontrovertible proof?  No, let the local forces and the Resistance shoulder it all--plausible deniability in pursuit of ignorant bliss!  Imbeciles, invertebrates, yesterday's garbage to be swept away for the betterment of all--!_

_But that day has yet to come._

__Part of you longs to sneak an antiemetic to hold the nausea at bay.  But you can't--that's practically a _guarantee_ that you'll end up having to fend off all sorts of unwanted attention, ranging from concern as to what's wrong with you to accusations against your performance that you _cannot_ have: not for your patients' sake, and not for your survival's sake.  And how could you ever explain that it's the complete inadequacy of the Corellian shipyard's defenses--like the whole of the New Republic--that revolts you so?  You cannot.  You _must_ not.  

There's only one choice: to ground yourself and endure.  Even if it's on entirely the wrong side of the battle, this is the one part of the chaos that you can help to mitigate.  The one thing that, to a life here and there, actually matters.

"Heads up," you hear Dr. Sorel call out to the emergency staff as a whole.  Heads turn, including yours.  Even _bad_ news at least keeps you _here_ in the place that serves life instead of that which serves death.  "Just got word from the bridge--we've got troops and TIEs deployed.  Get ready for personal combat injuries, and vacuum cases!"

You don't have to ask what a vacuum case is: it's not hard to guess what _that_ means.  You heard about it from the last war from before you were born--TIE pilots, unlike their underequipped X-Wing counterparts, wear vacuum suits into combat and have the option to eject and wait in space for search and rescue.  That is if they don't eject somewhere that leads to an immediate and fiery re-entry, have a personal emergency beacon malfunction, or end up being _blown_ loose from their craft by a shot that doesn't quite finish the job.  _Those_ \--no doubt--must be the truly horrifying vacuum cases.  
_  
_ But those casualties won't be coming in _immediately_.  Oh, no--the battle is still young yet.  And you know, you _know_...

 _It is time to give the order._ "The rest of you--activate your heads-up displays.  To the core!"

 _In the instant before the doors slide open to the rest of the shipyard, a faint wisp of_ something _wends its way through the helmet's filtration systems...a piquant blend of char and iron.  No--_ that's _just the imagination; disregard it!  Forward march--_

As for _you_ , all you can do right now is to wait.

 

You know it's medically necessary--both for you and for your patients.  But how you _loathe_ that necessity when Dr. Sorel comes around to you and Nurse Garamon and orders her...with the not-so-veiled implication that regardless of who it is you _really_ work for, it would still be wise for you to join her to sit down, eat a snack, and recharge.

Yet there's no way to communicate to Sorel, that won't arouse some form of suspicion, the fact that whatever it would mean for anyone else--or hell, even _you_ under circumstances other than a full-on _battle_ radioing itself into your mind every time your body and intellect come to some sort of rest--there is no relief for you in this.  Not in any sense other than a quick washroom stop...refresher, they call it--'washroom' must be some sort of Dantooinian thing, since you never heard it on off-planet entertainment growing up and you _certainly_ haven't heard it here.  And, of course, even more critical than that is putting some water and a nutrient bar into you.

And no sooner does your posterior hit the chair than the barrage of images begins.  And this time--oh, by all the stars, this time, it's _him_ now, a lethal flaming blade tight in his grip--

_Slash!  Once--again--two figures crumple to the ground, cloven nearly into four as their blasters clatter to the deck.  Two who thought they could spring on the unsuspecting from either side of the door.  One stroke each, both savage and precise, proved their undoing.  Three remain--trembling, cowering...ah, they recognize their adversary.  Good: that might make it easier._

_The first is a woman--their commanding officer.  The second--practically a child trying on an adult's uniform.  And the third...yes,_ he's _the one.  It radiates from him, like true mastery of anything does, an irrepressible wellspring of knowledge from which the force of will spouts.  He possesses the expertise, the codes, to release the classified data from the core.  But there's one thing standing in the way--_

 _One point of the finger is all it takes, and the order: "_ Her.  Kill her alone. _"_

Force yourself here--into this room, into the acts of eating, of drinking--and maybe, maybe you'll stand a chance of keeping the image of slaughter in the first person from the fore of your awareness...!

The image relents...but still, it _surges_ through you: readiness-- _rage_ \--and _release_ \--the ultimate release for which such fury is truly made...and you know.  The Corellian is dead at the hands of the Commander of the Knights of Ren.

 _Your_ commander.

Your stomach lets out an ominous sort of growl as it starts rebelling against the nutrient bar you just ate as if it were that vile green ration monstrosity from the cell where your captivity began.  Nurse Garamon tactfully--though perhaps a bit fearfully, you hate to note--keeps any thoughts she might have on this internal cacophony to herself.

You mentally talk yourself through the act of following the last of the nutrient bar with some water.  

But if you're truly understanding what it is your inward ear is telling you, the worst of this vision may be yet to come.  You mumble some sort of excuse that you hope doesn't sound to Garamon too much like someone about to be violently ill, and head for the washroom again, this time with the sole purpose of being _away_ if your fears are fully realized.

The door finally shuts behind you, and then--then--

 _A lower voice this time, leaning forward over them:_ "No one has to know.  Your commanding officer never will.  And once you and the droid are aboard my shuttle, the yards will be destroyed, including the core.  They'll never be able to prove whose codes opened the core."

 _The Corellians' features contort with unvarnished contempt.  "You can take your_ karkingwonderful _little offer and shove it straight up your waste port where all the rest of the monkey-lizard shit you're filled with is actually_ supposed _to come out.  That's assuming the port's not all clogged up and_ that's _why it's all pouring out your mouth instead.  I won't do_ karking crap _for you--go pry it out of the core with your fingers!"  He points at the high-voltage interface socket._

 _Fists tighten, head tilting to the side--thinks he's a quick one apparently, and truth be told, there_ is _something to that, to be able to spin all of that off under the barrel of a blaster.  The crackling saber blade explodes forth with a low growl._ "This is your last chance--do it now before I _make_ you do it.  You would _much_ rather do it this way, I can assure you!"

Oh, man...!  Your eyes flare wide.

 _What_ exactly is Commander Ren threatening--to do what?  To _draw out_ the man's thoughts, to extract the codes straight from his brain?  How can he even _contemplate_ it after what happened the last time he wielded his terrible powers of the mind?  And what will it do to _you_ \--how dare you think of yourself, part of you accuses, yet you _cannot_ help but think it regardless.

No...somehow you begin to sense that is _not_ what Ren has in mind.  Not exactly.  The option he contemplates--it... _displeases_ him somehow.  That impression you cannot dispute.  Yet whatever it is, whatever reservations he has...suddenly you feel it.  The moment in which time runs out and the dread possibility becomes the inexorable...  
_  
__An immense wave of will stabs forth and for an absolutely gut-wrenching instant, there's a stray thought--what if the effect spreads out of this room--that_ must not _happen--_

 __It's all you can do to suppress the moan that fights to rise from the depths of your soul--damn it, it's all you can do not to vomit, not to cry, not to _scream_ at the recognition that somehow, in some way, Kylo Ren is reaching through the Force not to your mind, but to another--he's doing all he can to veil from you the wave of _intent_ that he broadcasts--

\--and just as quickly as it came, it's _over_...

Yet _still_ you hear... _still_ you see...you can't help it, this _thing_ , this _curse_ , this _part of you_ \--it cannot and _will not_ be ignored, not in the horror that reverberates back and forth across the reaches of orbital space.  _From_ you... _to_ you--it's impossible to know the direction in which it travels.  Perhaps one, perhaps the other--perhaps _both_...yet whichever it is, it cannot change the atrocious _truth_ of what has been done.  
_  
__"Oh, no...what--oh, man, I really did this--how...how_ could _I...!"  The core tech begins to bawl helplessly as he takes it all in: the droid's already been carted out of the room; there's no undoing this compliance now.  "_ What did you make me do?!  _I can't--I can't_ live _with this..."_

 _Everything rises up from stomach to throat, to just below the uppermost coil of the gorget in a bilious fire.  And_ this _was the_ peaceful _option, according to the slain and outmoded teachings!  The simple and expedient escape, just a minor operation.  Well,_ this _is the truth, damn it,_ this _is all the proof it will ever take, as if recent events haven't already indelibly underscored the point._

_"I can't live with this..."_

_There's no connection of gazes...it's beyond the man's power.  But it's still so hard to even_ breathe _in this moment_ _\--a wonder that coherent words even emerge at all, low as they are.  "_ You won't have to."

_One swift slash, a flick of the wrist, and all that could give rise to thought is no more._

__And this... _this_ act... _this_ murder...

 _This_ , somehow, is mercy.

It would be for you, at least--the death you would wish upon yourself if Kylo Ren had followed the interrogation, the questioning, the unbreakable ties between minds, with reaching in and _compelling_ you.  _Breaking_ you, as he has allowed your shipmates to suspect.

And of all the incongruous things that could creep their way into your consciousness in a moment like this, a tale from when you were barely old enough to go to school echoes in the annals of memory.  A legend of a sect of mystics that wove its way into the heart of the Republic of old, people capable of twisting minds into complacency, either by suggestion or technology or magic, none could agree.  And they continued their lies and their manipulation until finally they saw fit to target the highest levels of power in the Republic.  They struck at the Supreme Chancellor, nearly killed him, warping his visage into that of the withered old man your parents remembered as Emperor Palpatine.

The scars had run far deeper than his ravaged skin, it was said--the attack had traumatized the Emperor, embittered him, distorted a decent man into the iron-fisted tyrant he had become.  A man determined never to let his will be manipulated or defied again.

You have no idea whether this legend is actually true--though now, with all that you've experienced for yourself, all that you think Ren has done this time, you wonder if there might not be some grain of truth in the tale.

And you wonder at the cruelty that could have compelled the would-be assassins, if they existed, to leave the Supreme Chancellor alive to become the Emperor who lived out his unceasing torment on the heads of the people whom he had once cherished.

This time, at least...the unspeakable atrocity has met a quick and ultimate end.  And that fact is an utterly barren sort of consolation...for all.

_The remaining one--half-child, still--quakes uncontrollably._

_"_ You will carry the message to your leaders in exactly these words: 'Kylo Ren has taken all that he came for.  If you show even the _slightest_ sign of rebuilding, there is no guarantee how far the destruction will range.'"  _A pause._ "There is an escape pod twenty meters down this corridor.  Now _go!_ "

_The gangly adolescent takes off at a dead run._

_"_ Pull out the division."  _The words ring mechanical and flat._ "We have completed our objectives."

That's it.  You can feel it: the end of all hope for the secrets of the Corellian Shipyards--and soon, for the lives of all but the young one that Commander Ren has turned loose to bear his awful message to the greater galaxy.

 

The battle may be concluding outside the hulls of the _Finalizer_ \--but not for you.  You can't afford to dwell on the horror--the _inevitability_ outside.  No-- _your_ battle is just beginning, as the casualties from the troop deployments start streaming in, and for many of them, there need not be death, if you can help it.  This is the battle you would have been fighting through the rest of _that night_ and into the morning on Dantooine had Kylo Ren not stolen you away.  This is dereliction of duty.  And this is fulfillment of duty, all rolled into one.

As for Commander Ren--there will be no visit from him, not for the time being.  For he is returning intact—and with _both_ your lives.

It's not long after the first troop transport docks that the injuries start streaming in; there are transport tubes direct from the spoke station aft of the main launch bay. What nearly breaks your Knight's facade of unflappability is _who_ emerges from the transport tube to become your first post-combat patient.

It's him—the Stormtrooper with the injured arm that you saw through Kylo Ren's eyes. And he's here now, the vision become armor and flesh.

You force your features into a mask of neutrality. At least if there's one thing the Stormtroopers have going for them as far as you're concerned, it's the fact that they rank among your most cooperative—and least intimidated—patients, when it comes to dealing with whatever exactly it is you are to the Knights of Ren. What you _haven't_ mastered yet is the art of identifying them in their full masks and armor, let alone memorizing those awful aureknumeric _designations_ they're stuck with in place of names.

As for that mask, even in the pain he's surely in, the Stormtrooper makes no move to remove it...which in this case is actually for the best, considering any movement is likely to jar the offending arm and make his pain even worse. "Take a seat here and let me help you with your mask," you say, reaching towards the sleek black and white helmet.

" _Yes, ma'am_ ," the Trooper replies in a facsimile of calm, wisely refraining from a nod as he gingerly eases himself onto the gurney. A groan escapes through the vocabulator of his helmet, mingled with what you suspect to be a sigh of relief as the weight comes off his feet.

Once he's seated, you approach and grasp his helmet with both hands on either sides of his chin—not that the helmet in profile has anything you would actually call a _chin—_ and slip your left fingers underneath until you find the release button. With a faint hiss...like a lesser version of the sound Ren's mask makes when he removes it...the seals are broken and the helmet ready for you to slide off of the injured Trooper's head.

Though you haven't had much success with their designations, you've made a concerted effort to at least try to remember the _faces_ of every Stormtrooper to come through your care...it's the one thing they each have, other than genetic markers, that truly marks them as individuals.

As for the man beneath _this_ mask...to the best of your memory, you have never treated him before. His hair is cropped close but even with only a few centimeters' worth, it's not hard to tell that it would form into gorgeous, tight curls if allowed. But what draws your eyes the most—as it always does—is the suppressed pain in his eyes. No Stormtrooper would ever do something as overtly normal as biting his lip to suppress the scream that any ordinary civilian would want to let rip under the circumstances, but you've seen more than enough suffering to know the truth.

"What's your designation?" you ask, inwardly cursing whoever's bright idea it was to deprive these men and women the dignity of a name.

"PK-947," the Trooper replies between gritted teeth. 'Pike Niner,' you think to yourself even though it would be held as sedition to speak it aloud.

You simply nod, typing the designation in on your datapad, which pulls up the Stormtrooper's medical records. "What happened?" you ask.

"Some plainclothes insurgent decided to hit me in the shoulder with a portable fire suppressor," Pike grumbled as though he were referring to nothing more serious than some drunkard walking up with the random bright idea of picking a cantina fight. "Dislocated it."

You can't blame him for the bitter edge to his voice—not with the pain he's clearly in—but _plainclothes insurgent_? Does he mean 'civilian' by that? Why does it even surprise you that the Stormtroopers aren't even taught to consider the idea that there might be any such thing as a legitimate noncombatant? With a term like that, it's easy for their commanders to designate _any_ gathering of people as targets. In the wrong place at the wrong time? That's not an innocent bystander—that's a _plainclothes insurgent_!

Civilian contractor, you translate in your head—on a Corellian military post, yes, but civilian nonetheless. Good for him or her, you want to cheer, for having the nerve to take up the weapon the environment offered up...and find a _hell_ of a lot more success than _you_ did when faced with the same sort of situation.

Yet even _that_ doesn't change the fact that what you have before you is an injured, suffering patient. And his name is Pike, you repeat to yourself. _Not_ PK-Nobody-Gives-a-Kark, damn what the First Order has tried to do. And with that, it's on to helping Pike out of the rest of his armor, leaving only the black bodysuit beneath. As soon as you have the abdominal plating and armpieces off, there's no mistaking the dip in the lateral muscle of the shoulder that signals an anterior dislocation.

The first order of business is to scan the joint to determine whether it can be manually reduced—or reset into the socket. And considering the blueish hue creeping into Pike's hand, you've got a bad feeling about just how much damage he sustained from that fire suppressor. The medisensor confirms your fears: not only is there blood vessel, ligament, and likely nerve damage, there's a fracture of the humerus as well.

You deliver the bad news to Pike; this isn't going to be as simple as reducing the shoulder and giving him a bacta patch and a sling. In fact, bacta is the _last_ thing you want to apply to an injury like this...you can't have that shoulder going into accelerated healing with this much unaddressed trauma.

"I'm going to give you a painkiller," you conclude, "and get you an immediate transfer to orthopedic surgery. In the meantime—no movement at all. You've got a lot of things torn up in there and the _last_ thing you need is to aggravate a damaged nerve or a blood vessel."

"Thanks," Pike grunts as you select an ampule of a painkiller deemed suitable for pre-surgical use and prep the hypospray. "And good to know." So the First Order _hasn't_ managed to kill every last shred of humanity in this Trooper, you're gratified to observe from his wry delivery.

Once you administer the injection, Pike's entire body starts to relax and he sinks back into the cushion, closing his eyes in some measure of relief. At this point, your job as his emergency medic is done for the most part, other than to activate the repulsorlifts on the gurney, comm Orthopedic Surgery to let them know he's coming, and transport Pike to the lift where their anesthesiologists and surgical nurses will take him, your reecords and scan data, and finish the rest of the surgical prep procedures.

As for you, it's on to the next patient, even as you silently wish Pike Niner your best—and then hope like hell you didn't send the thought elsewhere too.

A red light flashes next to the transport tube—the spoke station medics have already triaged this casualty, and it's critical. You stand ready. The medic accompanying your newest patient is so caught up in the heat of the moment that she doesn't even notice who—or _what—_ you are: she's already rattling off the crucial information you'll need to get this next patient staged.

"Patient's designation is HF-63, squad commander—he got caught in a thermal detonator blast," the spoke medic reports, and your heart sinks into your stomach. "Damn CorSec! The shock wave knocked him back, gave him some scrapes and bruises, but the number one concern's the fallout by far. Radiation levels before we put him through decon were _well_ past critical thresholds. Estimated time of exposure was ninety minutes ago."

As for your patient, you have to work to name this one since the first thing to come to mind, 'hydrogen fluoride,' is an extraordinarily unfriendly sort of gas with lethal potential not that far off from what he's dealing with right now...all right, you're going with Hayfield. And Hayfield is in the exact sort of trouble you would have had absolutely _no_ capacity to treat back in your practice on Dantooine with the limited supplies at your disposal.

The strange thing is, aside from the fact that your patient's already been stripped down to a medbay gown and drips of water still run from his body onto the gurney's cushion...Hayfield _looks_ like the epitome of health minus the bruises the spoke medic mentioned. In fact, had Hayfield been anything _but_ a Stormtrooper, there's a good chance he'd be putting up a vociferous protest that he _was_ fine and needed to get back on the job, damn it, instead of making such an incredible fuss over nothing.

Sadly, that's one of the primary hallmarks of gamma radiation poisoning, which thermal detonators are notorious for dealing out to those who happen to be just outside the range in which targets are vaporized or simply charred beyond recognition. As for Hayfield, he'd wound up in the cruelest part of the blast radius: where his armor had been enough to spare him the burning and the worst of the shock wave proper, but had done very little to block the incoming gamma rays, of which he had absorbed a dose that, without immediate and top-of-the-line treatment, would kill his body from the cellular level up over the course of seventy-two hours, the first twenty-four of which he'd essentially be the walking dead.

Which was the reason that back in the civilized days of the old Galactic Republic, these weapons had been banned. The Empire had seen no problem with the damned things, of course—and as anyone would have expected, the First Order didn't exactly have any qualms, either. The part that makes your skin crawl, though, is the fact that the Rebel Alliance...and now from the sound of it, the Corellian planetary security forces...had no reservations about them either. There are _plenty_ of ways to kill an enemy without prolonging his suffering, you think to yourself. Even that fiery crimson blade from your visions through _Ren's_ eyes was capable of dealing out a surer, more merciful end. Thankfully for Hayfield, there _is_ something you can do here aboard the _Finalizer_ instead of being forced to condemn him to a slow, agonizing death, since he was fortunate to make it back aboard ship quickly enough. This was one of the procedures Sorel drilled you on when you arrived for your orientation session.

"I'm going to apply a topical bacta salve," you tell your patient as you push the repulsor gurney over to an area where you can activate a privacy shield. "This will slow any further damage while you're being prepped for bacta immersion and genetic repair protocols."

While the bacta would promote healing even down to the cellular level, keeping Hayfield alive in the immediate future, without genetic repair, the bacta might _also_ indiscriminately sustain the lives of genetically damaged cells, resulting in the proliferation of cancer. As you apply the salve, starting with Hayfield's forehead, you can't help but tell him—albeit in the stern manner expected of you, "You got here in time. I would be lying to say your chances are perfect, but they _are_ good. Be strong, Trooper, and you can make it."

To your delight, Hayfield manages a wan—but unmistakable smile at that.

Once you've finished with the head-to-toe bacta application, your patient is ready for transport to Bacta Regen, where they'll ready the genetic repair serum he'll need, and then get him masked, place him under general anesthesia, and immerse him in a bacta tank until the radiation poisoning danger is past. You'd almost add that Hayfield might even retain the ability to father healthy children—except for the fact you're about damn sure that's forbidden for Stormtroopers. No families, no affairs, no distractions—nothing to usurp the place Supreme Leader Snoke claims for himself. That is, unless the First Order is defeated and some way is found to rehabilitate these indoctrinated men and women.

And now that you've commed Bacta Regen, and you're getting Hayfield staged by the proper lift, an oppressive weight settles over your heart. This war to which you have been irrevocably shackled—oh, you have so many more reasons to despise it now. Tens of thousands, aboard the _Finalizer_...these disposable Troopers who bear the brunt of this war for the First Order without the means to escape or even _question_ their fate as you can.

Unlike the Corellian defenders, and the Resistance, who knew the overwhelming odds and the horrific price of capture...or even coming within range of Kylo Ren and the terrible Force he wields over minds and lives, the same Force that ravaged the mind of Palpatine and led the entire galaxy into the grip of his nightmares...yet they _chose_ to be there anyway. They chose to be there, and...you can sense it. Even without the official announcement from General Hux as yet, you can feel that what you received from Commander Ren's mind held true all the way to the end: he has what he came for, and the Corellian Shipyards now orbit their world in millions of smoldering fragments, never again to supply the forces of freedom with the ships they so desperately need to withstand the onslaught of the First Order.

Shame—sorrow--rage--they all burn within you, for in this defeat is your survival. This is your war now—grafted to you now and for all your remaining time. And there is nothing left for you now but this: that you may lend some small mercy to the sentient tools of the victors. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Soundtrack:** ["Prelude to War"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SlcUwUwjLrs) by Bear McCreary
> 
>  
> 
>  **SCI/TECH NOTES:** Fans of the Legends continuity may have noticed that while I borrowed certain concepts from that timeline regarding bacta and thermal detonators, I have not borrowed those concepts entirely intact.
> 
> To begin with, while Legends put bacta up as pretty much a panacea capable of healing any wound and curing any illness, the logic of that simply did not sit well with me. Specifically, I just can't wrap my mind around the idea of bacta always being able to restore someone to a perfect state without intervention. Watching an animal rescue show, sadly, is enough to show what can happen if a fracture heals without being properly set. If bacta's function is to nourish and sustain the body's healing processes and immune functions, that's great, but if the conditions haven't been made just right to ensure that healing will go in the right direction, it could yield some very unintended results. Similar with radiation poisoning...while this theoretical immune system boost could help with ensuring some diseased and potentially cancerous cells are detected and destroyed by the body's own defenses, the thing is that the bacta itself does not have a brain. It does not somehow know what is right for each patient. Hence in my continuity, treatment protocol for radiation poisoning requires additional support from the medbay staff to ensure that genetic repair takes place properly so that the bacta doesn't end up "healing" cells that are later going to become a tumor, a blood cancer, or some other awful form of unintended outcome.
> 
> And then there's the thermal detonator thing. According to the Legends description, anyway, thermonuclear detonator would be a more appropriate description--specifically, a really, really tiny fusion bomb. Which considering the fact that Star Wars civilization is clearly at least a Type I on the Kardashev scale (we're only a "Type 0," for comparison), is not that outlandish to consider, that they might somehow have miniaturized that sort of thing in a way that for us would be completely and totally inconceivable. (What it takes US to accomplish nuclear fusion is...a lot bigger--as in, H-bombs, or lasers powered by absurd amounts of electricity that we have to generate in mundane old 21st century ways.) But the Legends description THEN goes on to say that the blast radius of this teeny, tiny little H-bomb is somehow so exact that it can vaporize targets within its radius but have no effects whatsoever on anything outside said vaporization radius.
> 
> And that is where I'm afraid I had to draw the line. No. Just no. Gamma radiation is no joke, guys, and the Reader character isn't kidding that without some seriously exotic, futuristic forms of treatment, exposure over a certain threshold really will kill you from the inside out, destroying your cells' ability to replenish themselves and giving you one of the most hideous deaths you could possibly imagine. And there is no way a device that explodes OUT, in my head, is going to have some way to keep all that radiation IN, when its job once the button is pushed, is to make sure all that pent-up fusion energy that's crying to get out...GETS OUT.
> 
> The Legends notes DO mention one other thing: that thermal detonators were banned by the old Galactic Republic. Which honestly makes a lot more sense to me if it DOES have a nasty localized fallout effect that gives bystanders radiation poisoning...because if the thing really worked as advertised and had that kind of precisely controllable blast and effect radius, I would actually think that would be favored as a smart weapon, much as we have guided missiles and snipers IRL to take out targets with the goal of minimizing civilian casualties.
> 
> So yeah, thermal detonators in Another Set of Eyes are not to be trifled with. And God help you if you don't have really quick access to a bacta tank.
> 
> One last note...that little bit about hydrogen fluoride (HF) being an "extraordinarily unfriendly" sort of gas...well, I couldn't help it. I had to do a shout-out to Derek Lowe, a pharmaceutical researcher who writes the often hilarious [In the Pipeline](http://blogs.sciencemag.org/pipeline/) blog, which includes jewels such as "Things I Won't Work With," "Things I'm Glad I Don't Do," and "How Not to Do It." Even if you (like me) are not a chemistry major, it is STILL absolutely hilarious.
> 
> And in case you're wondering where I learned about HF, which can ALSO kill you in a "walking dead" sort of way, [here you go](http://blogs.sciencemag.org/pipeline/archives/2004/03/03/things_i_wont_touch_1).


End file.
